The Business End of Your Pencil

One day when I was studying with Schoenberg,
he pointed out the eraser on his pencil and said,
"This end is more important than the other."

— John Cage

It's one thing to praise brevity, another to achieve it. Brevity begins and ends with "chunks."

The basic chunk is the paragraph. 

Think of the paragraph as a form of punctuation. Just as sentences would be hard to read without commas, colons, and periods, writing would be hard to read without paragraphs.

As a rule, short paragraphs (like this one) are effective.

However, while writing short paragraphs can be a virtue, paragraphs need not be short to seem brief. They simply have to follow a proven, four-part formula:

1. First, get your thoughts down, even if they take the form a single paragraph.

2. Next, "chunk" your separate thoughts into separate paragraphs.

3. Then, polish your paragraphs:

• Make sure your topic sentence—establishing the main point of the paragraph—is up front.
  
  
• Make sure the topic sentence transitions from the prior paragraph. That means it begins with something familiar to your reader, namely, the idea last expressed at the end of the previous paragraph. 
  
  
• Shape the entirety of your paragraph so it progresses cohesively and coherently. Your sentences should flow one from another (that makes them cohesive) and at the same time link to a single topic—the one captured in your topic sentence (that makes them coherent). Whenever your sentences don't link readily to the main topic, introduce bullets or numbers, or simply begin a new paragraph. And don't bother writing a "summation" or "conclusion" at the end of your paragraph. Just leap to the next one.

4. Lastly, apply the business end of your pencil and revise. As you're doing so, be sure to express all your ideas with precision and to cut your words by a third, at least.

“Writing is revision,” as Tracy Kidder says.

Here's an example of a paltry paragraph—lacking a topic sentence, lacking cohesiveness, lacking coherence, lacking precision. It's short, but godawful:

London's weather had been unusual for September, so Londoners took advantage of it to linger in the parks and visit the popular department stores. Even though an occasional air-raid siren would sound, the barrage balloons that flew overhead provided them a sense of security. They also attended plays and went to "picture shows," seeing films like Rebecca, The Thin Man and Gaslight. Considering England was at war, Londoners on the whole were quite complacent.

Here's the same content in the hands of Erik Larson, a writer who knows the business end of a pencil (the passage is from his new best-seller The Splendid and the Vile):

The day was warm and still, the sky blue above a rising haze. Temperatures by afternoon were in the nineties, odd for London. People thronged Hyde Park and lounged on chairs set out beside the Serpentine. Shoppers jammed the stores of Oxford Street and Piccadilly. The giant barrage balloons overhead cast lumbering shadows on the streets below. After the August air raid when bombs first fell on London proper, the city had retreated back into a dream of invulnerability, punctuated now and then by false alerts whose once-terrifying novelty was muted by the failure of bombers to appear. The late-summer heat imparted an air of languid complacency. In the city’s West End, theaters hosted twenty-four productions, among them the play Rebecca, adapted for the stage by Daphne du Maurier from her novel of the same name. Alfred Hitchcock’s movie version, starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine, was also playing in London, as were the films The Thin Man and the long-running Gaslight.

Tighten Your Spigot

Be silent for the most part; or say only

what is necessary and in few words.

― Epictetus

A phone call with a salesman this week reminded me why I dislike so many salespeople.

He would not shut up.

What should have been a 10-minute call wound up an hour-long harangue.

Citing the "Golden Ratio," sales coaches advise you to "talk less, listen more." The ratio of talk should be 3:2 in favor of the customer.  

But this guy isn't buying it.

And I may not buy what he's selling—simply because I can't take another drenching.

Worse, he followed the call up with a 600-word email (not including his two attachments). I've yet to read it all.

If only he knew about Star Style.

Ernest Hemingway mastered Star Style in 1917 during a seven-month apprenticeship at The Kansas City Star. It would propel the writer to fame only nine years later.

In a 1940 interview, Hemingway recalled how the paper's city editor taught him to write by demanding adherence to 110 rules. "Those were the best rules I ever learned for the business of writing,'' Hemingway said. 

Foremost among them were three: Use short sentences. Use vigorous English. Eliminate every superfluous word.

Hemingway revered The Star's rules. "I've never forgotten them. No man with any talent can fail to write well if he abides by them."

Hemingway added to the rules one of his own, which in Death on the Afternoon he labeled the "Iceberg Theory."

"The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water," he wrote. 

"If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them."

The Greek Stoic Epictetus, 2,000 years before had urged followers to abide by comparable rules for speaking.

"Be silent for the most part; or say only what is necessary and in few words," Epictetus advised.

"Talk, but rarely, if occasion calls, and never about ordinary things—gladiators or horse races or athletes or feasts; these are vulgar topics; but above all not about men in blame or compliment or comparison. Turn the conversation, if you can, by talking about fitting subjects; but, should you be among strangers, be silent."

If you're prone to saying too much—in person or on paper—consider your audience. Show them some charity. Tighten your spigot. 

Maybe the Golden Ratio should be 9:1 in favor of the customer.

Maybe the gold in the Golden Rule is—silence.

Birds Sing from the Heart, Revisited

Five years ago this week, author Erik Deckers invited me to guest-post on his blog. "Birds Sing from the Heart" was the result, one that still holds up years later. Here it is in its entirety.

Erik recently invited me to discuss “My Writing Process,” a dead-horse topic if there ever were one.

But I’ll beat that horse anyway, just because Erik asked.

Here you go:

Where I find ideas. The wellsprings of ideas are many and inexhaustible. The ones I return to again and again are:

• Other writers—from the sublime (e.g., Emerson, Faulkner, Sartre, Updike) to the ridiculous (names withheld)
  
• Pop culture (songs, movies, TV shows, blogs, etc.)
  
• Current events (AKA La Comédie humaine)
  
• Memories, dreams, reflections
  
• Other people’s observations (my wife’s, in particular)

How I write the ideas down. My secret sauce is no secret. Writing isn’t thinking. It isn’t even writing. “Writing is revision,” as Tracy Kidder says. “Write once, edit five times,” David Ogilvy urged office mates.” Priceless advice. Your fifth draft may not excel, but it will beat your first by a long shot. And, as you edit five times, be like the birds. An ornithologist mentioned during a recent NPR interview that birds’ voice boxes are lodged deep within their chests. “Birds sing from the heart,” she said. You should, too. Readers like it and will respond accordingly.

How I assure quality. Copy’s never error free, but I try hard to check my facts. In fact, I often spend more time fact-checking sources than writing and editing. (Don’t hem and haw: fact-checking is enlightening.) And I proofread, both twice before I hit publish and twice afterwards. Boring task, but my reputation’s on the line.

How I spread ideas. Outposting has helped aggrandize my scribblings more than any of my other activities. Adman Gary Slack advises clients to invest in “other people’s audiences” more than their own. He’s 100% on the money.

For more advice about writing. If you’re hungry for sound advice, listen to Paul Simon and Chuck Close discuss the creative process in a podcast for The Atlantic. You’ll learn more than you will by reading 50 how-to books, with these four noteworthy exceptions:

• The Art and Craft of Feature Writing by William E. Blunder
• On the Art of Writing Copy by Herschel Gordon Lewis
• Secrets of a Freelance Writer by Bob Bly
• Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark

Oh yeah, don’t forget No Bullshit Social Media.

Above: Little Bird by Jose Trujillo. Oil on canvas. 14 x 14 inches.

Verbosity

Verbosity wastes a portion of the reader’s life.

— Mokokoma Mokhonoana

In the midst of Britain's "darkest hour," Winston Churchill paused to write a one-page memo scolding his war cabinet ministers for verbosity.

"Clarity and cogency can be reconciled with a greater brevity," he told one of them. "It is slothful not to compress your thoughts."

That memo, entitled "Brevity," is one of Churchill's most famous.

It demanded that all ministers and their underlings avoid "officialese" in writing, and keep all memos brief—no more than a page long.

Brevity, Churchill promised, would save readers time—time better spent outsmarting their Nazi adversaries.

Churchill singled out pompous and clichéd gobbledygook as particularly wasteful.

"Let us have an end of such phrases as these: 'It is also of importance to bear in mind the following considerations,' or 'Consideration should be given to the possibility of carrying into effect,'" Churchill wrote. 

"Most of these woolly phrases are mere padding, which can be left out altogether or replaced by a single word. Let us not shrink from using the short expressive phrase, even if it is conversational."

Brevity, Churchill promised, would not only save the government time, but "prove an aid to clear thinking."

Churchill was right, on both counts. 

Concise usually is precise—provided you avoid clichés.

I once had a boss who traveled a lot. 

When responding to draft sales copy or ideas and suggestions from me while she was out of town, she'd send me extremely concise emails.

But they consisted of nothing but clichés like "Off brand," Wait, what?'' and "Meh."

Concise, but not precise.

I always had to await her return to the office to learn what she expected me to do. 

She both wasted my time and set back my projects.

Clichés are fine when you have nothing but praise or approval to offer. "Lovin' it!" for example. "Good stuff!" Or, my favorite, "Boffo!"

Clichés are also fine when you can't help out. "Sorry, haven't a clue." "Sorry, not in my wheelhouse. "Sorry, no can do." (Churchill, for example, telegrammed FDR asking for help with the evacuation of Dunkirk. FDR replied simply, "Good luck.")

If you want to be a good boss or colleague—a helpful, thoughtful one—take the time to write concise, but precise, directions. 

"Ask Legal to review the entire contract one more time before you send it to the customer. The sales guy changed a lot of our boilerplate. Not sure that's kosher. Ask for it back within 24 hours."

"Make the subhead the major headline. It's stronger. And add a call to action."

"Ask Meghan whether she wrote code for another client that calculates shipping costs. You can just plug her code in. But be sure it can handle Euros."

In The Plato Cult and Other Philosophical Follies, Australian philosopher David Stove argued that verbosity is more than long-windedness and muddled thinking.

Verbosity reflects a grotesque "character defect;" a trait he calls "pathology of thought."

Verbosity, Stove says, signals "a simple inability to shut up; a determination to be thought deep; a hunger for power; and fear—especially fear of an indifferent universe."

I've certainly observed that character defect during my career.

The best bosses I've ever had were also succinct and enviable writers; the worst were inarticulate psychopaths who couldn't think their way out of a paper bag. 

The memos they produced were long, flatulent and inscrutable. 

The next email you write, please, take a few moments to edit yourself. Kill the clichés. Get to the point. Be specific. Then trim every third word. 

Your reader will thank you. 

Zoom-Shirt Marketing

Confession is always weakness.

— Dorothy Dix

There's an easily-crossed border between authenticity and unseemliness.

I've noticed a lot of content marketers are crossing it, and am not sure they're making a wise move.

They may soon come to regret the confessional tone they've struck in their writing. One of weakness, wariness, weariness, and regret.

Blame Covid-19 if you want. 

It's forced everyone to examine the inauthentic lives they were living.

But whatever the cause, I can't recommend Zoom-shirt marketing: looking okay on the surface while confessing that—in reality—you're overwhelmed.

Zoom-shirt marketing hopes to build intimacy. 

But more often than not it's unseemly, and no way to build trust—the very foundation of sales.

In your efforts to appear authentic, be careful how confessional your content becomes.

"Confession is good for the soul," an old Scottish proverb holds. 

It's not so good for sales.

Confession is a style of writing better left to literature; to Rousseau and Thoreau; to Lowell and to Plath.

It has little place in content marketing.

FOOTNOTE: Here's an example of Zoom-shirt marketing. Here's another.

An Exercise in Gobbledygook

Anything is better than not to write clearly.

— Somerset Maugham

"Dear Neighbors," the 16-page letter begins.

The author, Jean Wodnicki, say she hopes to advise Champlain Towers residents of the "state of the building," because answering their pesky questions has become an annoyance and "all-consuming." 

The issue at hand: a repairs estimate for $15 million. The homeowners association, over which she presides, has almost no money.

Three long, boring paragraphs in, Wodnicki notes that the building's state is lousy and "has gotten significantly worse" since the estimate was received. 

It appears the pillars are "spalling."

I've read Wodnicki's letter—sent three months before last week's collapse of Champlain Towers South—and can only say don't ever send a letter like this.

Anything is better than not to write clearly.

Monday-morning quarterbacking is easy; but were I to have written Wodnicki's letter, I might have opened it like this:

Dear Neighbors,

We have talked for years about the need to repair our crumbling building. There's no more time for talk. Now is the time to proceed. The repair will cost $15 million. Because there is little cash on hand, all of us will have to pony up.

With the benefit of clairvoyance, I would have added a second lead-in paragraph:

Dear Neighbors,

We have talked for years about the need to repair our crumbling building. There's no more time for talk. Now is the time to proceed. The repair will cost $15 million. Because there is little cash on hand, all of us will have to pony up. 

If we don't pony up, 150 of us will be crushed to death in three months. That's painful—much more painful than finding the money.

Clairvoyance or not, I would have made sure the letter fit on one side of a piece of paper, and that readers understood by the close that the repairs must commence—immediately.

Jean Wodnicki's letter is an extended exercise in gobbledygook sandwiched in self-pity.

“An honest tale speeds best being plainly told," Shakespeare said.

Don't ever send a letter like this.

The Suspense is Killing Me

On a technical note, Google will suspend its Blogger email delivery service on Wednesday. (Blogger is the platform I use for Goodly.)

Beginning July, Goodly subscribers will receive emails from me weekly. 

Each will contain links to my newest posts.

Sadly, several great blogs that I read have decided to shutter due to Google's short-sighted move.

The lesson for content producers: don't build your house on "rented" land.

Why Google is suspending Blogger's email delivery service is a mystery, until you realize that shareholders are nervous about the company's profitability.

It's plowing billions into more servers and "moonshots" such as the driverless car—billions it may never earn back.

Will Blogger go on the cost-cutting block next?

Above: Paranoia by Gregory Guy. Acrylic on canvas. 24 x 18 inches.

Laughorisms

There is nothing more difficult to define than an aphorism.

— Umberto Eco

Those pansophical gems known as aphorisms have captivated me since I first encountered them in Nietzsche.

"How many of us have been attracted to reason; first learned to think, to draw conclusions, to extract a moral from the follies of life, by some dazzling aphorism?" the Victorian writer Edward Bulwer-Lytton asked.

Aphorisms—what one writer calls "the world in a phrase"—beguile you with their sagacity.

For example:

Many people are obstinate about the path taken, few about the destination. (Nietzsche)

The heart has its reasons that reason does not know. (Pascal)

Common sense is genius dressed in his working clothes. (Emerson)

Friends come and go, but enemies accumulate. (Thoreau)

We know what happens to people who stay in the middle of the road: they get run over. (Bierce)

There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. (Wilde)

Nothing so needs reforming as other people's habits. (Twain)

Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves. (Dorothy Parker)

Only the guy who isn't rowing has time to rock the boat. (Sartre)

From the pens of quipsters—Bierce, Wilde, Twain and Parker, to name a few—aphorisms are like sunny classrooms: you rejoice in what you learn from them.

From the pens of savants—Pascal, Thoreau, Emerson, Nietzsche and Sartre—they're like Agatha Christie cozies: you're charmed but stymied, until you figure them out.

But aphorisms from the pens of windbags are another matter. 

They're haughty, but stupid, like the bumbling stuffed-shirts in Three Stooges films. They wish to be taken seriously; but you can only laugh at them.

A case in point.

I belong to the Facebook group Practical Existentialism, where windbags post witless aphorisms by the dozens every day; for example:

Every skill is ultimately an extension of instinct, because something cannot be created from nothing. The profound evolves from the basic.

I rejoiced to see the post earn this comment:

What? Just quit this pseudo crap already. Jack Handey had deeper questions.

Laughable aphorisms—laughorisms—abound in social media, particularly in the posts of personal coaches, sales trainers, motivational speakers, gurus, clerics, psychotherapists, retired journalists, and amateur philosophers.

Here's a smattering (names withheld to protect the innocent): 

What you believe doesn't matter. How you believe is everything.

Truth is never the whole truth. Truth is not literally true.

To make a difference, you must first overcome indifference.

Nature is chaos and our minds are its children.

We’re little balloons floating through a godless universe. Nihilism is the slow leak.

Inertia has a momentum all its own.

Forever coiled, never sprung.

Everything is darker at night.

Fear dying, not death.

"Aphorisms are very seductive," says says philosopher Julian Baggini. "But I often think they’re too beguiling. 

"They trick us into thinking we’ve grasped a deep thought by their wit and brevity, but if you poke them, you find they ride roughshod over all sorts of complexities and subtleties. 

"A person who has an aphorism for everything gives thought to nothing."

Long and Winding Road

Winners never quit and quitters never win.

― Vince Lombardi

My next post will represent the fifteen-hundredth to appear on Goodly. The first post appeared nearly 11 years ago.

It's been a slog.

So I can't help snickering at the news that From the Desk of Donald J. Trump is no more. Trump has shuttered his blog after less than four weeks.

"Mr. Trump had become frustrated after hearing from friends that the site was getting little traffic and making him look small and irrelevant," The New York Times said.

He should have asked other bloggers how they felt in the first month.

But that would require humility and empathy.

Trump went wrong expecting success overnight. When his blog earned few readers, his enthusiasm evaporated, almost as quickly, and he quit.

Trump wants only wins and adulatory crowds. A failure at everything, he doesn't understand success.

As Churchill said, “Success is the ability to go from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.”

Polymaths

You know you're old when you're asked, "Do you have hobbies?"

— Warren Beatty

Bob Lowry, a blogger I enjoy, recently asked whether the search for a "perfect passion" in retirement isn't a fool's errand.

"There is no doubt that a passion or hobby that is meaningful to you is one of the keys to a satisfying retirement," Lowry says, "but searching for those things that inspire and motivate you might be a waste of time."

You'd be better off, he says, trying your hand at a lot of "imperfect" pursuits.

"Don't allow yourself to stagnate just because you haven't stumbled onto the one thing that lights your fire," Lowry says. "Try all sorts of activities. If what you are doing doesn't grab you, drop it. 

"When you find that passion, the thing that pushes you out of bed each morning, you will know it. In the meantime, you have had fun, learned something new, got your blood pumping, or at the very least gotten off your butt."

Lowry's spot on: there's nothing wrong with polymathy—in fact, quite the opposite. Polymaths are often the ones who connect dots we would never, ever connect—or notice in the first place.

The late motivational speaker Barbara Sher called polymaths scanners, people "unlike those who seem to find and be satisfied with one area of interest." 

Unable to latch onto one or two imperfect passions, scanners are "genetically wired to be interested in many things," Sher believed.

That polymathy makes scanners disturbing to others. 

"Because your behavior is unsettling, you’ve been taught you’re doing something wrong and must try to change," Sher said. "But what you’ve assumed is a disability is actually an exceptional gift. You are the owner of a remarkable, multi-talented brain."

One of my favorite polymaths was Winston Churchill. We remember him as a politician, but throughout his life he devoted equal energies to writing (the greatest source of his income), painting, horse breeding, and bricklaying.

Yes, bricklaying.

As he found painting (and brandy), Churchill found bricklaying a remedy for the "worry and mental overstrain" (i.e., manic depression) that dogged him most of his life.

In pursuit of the hobby, Churchill built brick walls, walkways, fish ponds, patios, a swimming pool and a child's cottage, all on the grounds of his estate. 

He also became a member of the local mason's union—despite his vocal opposition to unionized workers' wage demands and the right to strike.

Churchill had little interest in the betterment of the working class.

Even a polymath has his limits.

Inimitable

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

— T.S. Eliot

There's theft and there's appropriation. 

Theft is like porn: you know it when you see it. I recently sent an article to the editor of Successful Meetings; the following week, my article—poorly recast—appeared under a staff writer's byline. 

That's theft.

Andy Warhol, on the other hand, made imitation boxes of Brillo, not for display in grocery stores, but in art galleries. 

That's appropriation.

Whole books have been written about Bob Dylan's penchant for appropriation.

He's appropriated melodies from folk singers, blues players, country artists, and English balladeers; lyrics from novelists, playwrights, scriptwriters, and fellow composers; and paintings from other painters.

Critics are quick to call Dylan's borrowings theft, but even Shakespeare was hardly above appropriation, as T.S. Eliot noted.

"Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal," Elliot wrote of Shakespeare. 

"Bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion."

Dylan has appropriated from plenty of others; but he's welded what he's taken "into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn."

His way of welding makes him inimitable.

NOTE: Bob Dylan turns 80 this month. He resumes touring in June. A retrospective of his paintings opens in November. His archives opens to the public next May.

Learning to Walk

You don't learn to walk by following rules. 

You learn by doing, and by falling over. 

— Richard Branson

I'm halfway through three months of physical therapy after shattering an ankle. I'm learning to walk again.

The therapists pester me constantly to walk, walk, walk, in order to speed my recovery. Willpower and workouts alone won't cut it, they insist. I have to "learn by doing."

Meantime, I'm tutoring an eighth grader in writing and asking the same of him.

Applying William Faulkner's advice to would-be writers—read, read, read—I've assigned him a small mountain of prose: pieces by Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Friedrich Nietzsche, E.B. White, Hunter S. Thompson, John D. MacDonald, George Plimpton, Martin Luther King, and a pack of lesser-knowns. I've also introduced him to speed reading and have asked him to write chapter summaries of How to Read a Book every week through July.

All this for a boy who, before we met, only read an occasional gaming magazine and hardly wrote anything at all (his public school really let him down). But I want to make the most of our tutoring sessions. If he falls over once in a while, so be it; at least he won't shatter an ankle.

POSTSCRIPT: Want to help a good cause? Go to Mighty Writers to learn more.

Lean Expression

Brevity is a great charm of eloquence.

— Cicero

The Kansas City Star taught 18-year-old Ernest Hemingway "the best rules I ever learned in the business of writing.”

When Hemingway began as a copywriter at the paper in 1917, The Star's rules demanded brevity: "Use short sentences. Use short first paragraphs. Eliminate every superfluous word."

With few exceptions, writers before him were masters of verbalism; but with a boost from The Star, Hemingway forged a new, vigorous and modern style of expression.

Lean expression.

"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about," Hemingway wrote in Death in the Afternoon, "he may omit things that he knows and the reader will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them."

Hemingway helped his reader not only by omitting superfluous words, but by chaining sensations to emotions, as in this passage from A Moveable Feast illustrates:

"As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans."

That's the "Hemingway style." Frill-free storytelling, uplifted by the compounding of repetition, rhyme, alliteration, stream of consciousness, Biblical and Bachian cadences, and strict avoidance of the flowery, routine and trite—no Latinate words, for example, like "mollusk;" no adjectives like "slippery;" no adverbs like "eagerly;" no clichés like "the world is your oyster;" and no mention of oysters' effect on the libido.

Eloquent, keen and lean.

POSTSCRIPT: Go here for more assessment. And treat yourself to A Moveable Feast. It's free.

Travesty

This disease controls my life.

— Dietrich Hectors

As depicted in Ken Burns and Lynn Novick's new documentary "Hemingway," a wartime concussion—one of five he suffered in his time—left the writer with a little-discussed condition: tinnitus. 

Even the documentary fails to discuss it. Hemingway's chronic tinnitus gets one mention in six hours of narration.

Debilitating tinnitus—not just “ringing in the ears,” but buzzing, hissing, whistling, swooshing, and clicking in the ears—afflicts 20 million Americans, according to the CDC.

Who pays attention? 

Almost no one.

But tinnitus, "the perception of sound when no actual external noise is present," drives millions of Americans to despair and leads some sufferers to suicide, even though medical researchers deny a causal connection.

Last month, Texas Roadhouse CEO Kent Taylor killed himself after Covid-19 left him with tinnitus. 

In recent years, tinnitus has led many other distinguished people to end their own lives, including rock musician Craig Gill, management consultant Robert McIndoe, graphic designer Rick Tharp, and industrial engineer Dietrich Hectors (who left a heart-wrenching "farewell letter" on Facebook).

I wouldn't suggest Hemingway's 1961 suicide stemmed from his chronic tinnitus. 

The writer suffered from a mountain of other maladies, including traumatic brain injury, hemochromatosis, and alcoholism. Medically speaking, he was an unmitigated mess. 

But tinnitus could only have worsened his torment.

According to the American Tinnitus Association, when you consider lost earnings, lost productivity, and medical outlays, tinnitus costs the nation $26 billion a year. Yet tinnitus goes unrecognized by Medicare and Medicaid, and federal funds for basic research are paltry—stifling innovation and the chance of a cure.

Last year, the feds spent only $400 million on hearing-related research. In contrast, it just spent $500 million on Covid-19 relief in St. Louis—alone.

How so atrocious an affliction can remain ignored is a travesty.

NOTE: If you suffer chronic "ringing in the ears," contact the American Tinnitus Association for help.

Pulp Fiction

If these yarns were trash, then they were the best trash. 

They were trash for connoisseurs of trash.

― Don Hutchison

Frank Munsey dreamed big.

A mid-level manager for Western Union, Munsey quit his job and moved to New York in September 1882, with the dream of becoming a publisher. 

In less than two months he launched Golden Argosy, a monthly boys' magazine he conceived as a replacement for the "dime novels" so popular at the time.

But Munsey had to scramble for readers—boys worked long and hard to spare a dime in the 1880s; and many couldn't—and after four years found himself going broke.

Rather than give up his dream, Munsey repackaged Golden Argosy.

His decision gave birth to an industry. 

First, he shortened the name of his faltering magazine and shrank its physical dimensions by 60%. He also replaced its expensive cotton-paper pages with wood-pulp, a move that allowed him to price Argosy at just five cents a copy.

Most importantly, Munsey expanded the magazine's audience to include adult men.

Argosy became a runaway hit, attracting over 500,000 monthly readers. 

To keep his audience coming back, Munsey made sure his "pulp" dished up every sort of story the American male craved—romances, adventures, sex stories, war stories, crime stories, mysteries, Western tales, historical tales, and sci-fi thrillers.

Appearing in droves, copycats soon launched competing pulps—by the hundreds. 

Within a few years, they crowded the racks of drugstores, newsstands, tobacco shops and confectioneries nationwide. 

Their titles included such gems as Black Mask, Marvel, Nick Carter, Clues, Dime Detective, Nickle Western, Fight Stories, Railroad Stories, Pirate Stories, Saucy Stories, Pep Stories, Spicy Adventure, Weird Tales, Wild West Weekly, Dare-Devil Aces and The Mysterious Wu Fang.

Not only did publishers cash in on the pulp-fiction craze, but writers did, too.

About 1,300 of them wrote short stories for two cents a word, in order to feed men's insatiable demand for escape.

While most pulp-fiction writers are forgotten today, some are well remembered—even lionized.

Among the latter are William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, John D. MacDonald, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Earle Stanley Gardner, H.P. Lovecraft, Ray Bradbury, and Arthur C. Clarke.

A paper shortage during World War II, the debut of the 25-cent "pocketbook," and the proliferation of movies, radio programs, and TV shows displaced the pulps.

Bleeding readers, magazines like Dime Detective and Dare-Devil Aces simply shuttered.

Those that didn't abandoned fiction altogether, moving into the category of "men's magazines" and devoting their lurid pages to topics like Nazi sadists, serial killers, Bigfoot, and the Bermuda Triangle. 

I still remember seeing those throwbacks in the confectioner's stores in the early 1960s, on the racks above the comic books and the copies of Mad. 

By then, the age of the pulps was over.

"The age of the pulp magazine was the last in which youngsters were forced to be literate," pulp-fiction writer Isaac Asimov lamented.

Serial Killer

There is no comma between the penultimate item in a list and "and"/"or," unless required to prevent ambiguity.

— Oxford University Style Guide

The serial comma—also known as the Oxford comma—is the comma often needed before the conjunction at the end of a list.

When you omit the serial comma—as Rudy has—you kill the meaning of your statement.

You might argue Rudy saved a stroke. 

But he induced a stroke among his followers, by pitting the party of Reagan, Trump and the traitors (whoever they are) against that of Lincoln.

A single comma would have been the life-saver.

While Rudy's sin of omission is exquisite, my all-time favorite remains this book-dedication by a fellow right-winger:

This book is dedicated to my parents, Ayn Rand and God.

Although you might think so, the book's author wasn't Mike Lindell. 

The author merely shared similar parentage.

Follow the Money

A grifter scams people. 

Grifter is a 20th century Americanism that stems from the English word graft, meaning “the obtaining of profit by shady means, especially bribery, blackmail, or the abuse of power.”

Grifters abound, particularly on the right.

Trump's "Stop the Steal" is a scam, and it turns out Michael Flynn's endorsement of QAnon is, too. 

QAnon itself is a scam.

Before there was QAnon, there was Glenn Beck, another grifter. 

Beck monetized right-wing conspiracy theories, prying millions from the pockets of gullible followers. In a bold show of cynicism, Beck named his company Mercury Radio Arts after Orson Welles' Mercury Theatre on the Air, whose 1939 broadcast of War of the Worlds famously faked out gullible fans.

Beck was a grifter, and proud of it.

The next time you hear another crackpot claim about Dominion Voting or Lizard People, remember to follow the money.

That phrase came from the late William Goldman's script for the 1976 film "All The President’s Men," the political thriller about Watergate.

Deep Throat told Woodward and Bernstein that if they hoped ever to understand how Washington worked, they should "Follow the money."