Why the Terrible Silence?

Because I'm writing like a fool on two projects.

1) I am grinding outThe Great Demographic Report I will present to the National Society of Newspaper Columnists a week from today in Boston, Massachusetts, USA. You'd like a teaser, a nice little tidbit of info from my vast research?

Look here then. Just how old are these columnists I surveyed?

Freelance
70+ 20 percent
60+ 14
50+ 25
40+ 30
30+ 8
20+ 4

Salaried Newspaper Columnists
70+ 10 percent
60+ 23
50+ 36
40+ 23
30+ 10
20+ 5

Median for both groups 51

Gold. Pure gold.



2) I am adding sparkle to that novel that for the last 25 years has huddled in the dust at the back of the drawer in consecutive places of Robertson habitation. It's all about life at a fundamentalist Christian college. I think the time has come for this particular flower to blossom. And here's a sample from it:

Clement D. Soyboy had pranced out from behind the lectern like a drum major. He began waving his hands over his head and chanting. So far he had gotten a few Praise the Lords and a Halleleujah – not much. But from the back of the gym where all the football players sat together came a response to his call.

“VICK-tree VICK-tree VICK-tree over masturbation.”

Now the cry came from all corners, brazen, joyful and from the football team (I supposed) equivocal.

I was fascinated by Clement D. Soyboy’s hands. He was lean, long and bony, not much of a pretty man. He had started to hop and to stretch, showing a fashionable length of cuff as he strained to touch the big pink cardboard hand that hung above. Dean Henry Plimsoll sprang to his feet and moved to the stage upon which he leaped in a great squatting jump like a Cossack.

Clement D. Soyboy ceased his hopping, awaiting the Dean’s intervention, and the sound level dropped except toward the back where it rose higher still.

The Dean stripped off his jacket, tossed it aside with what can only be described as a flourish and reached for Clement D. Soyboy.

“I want to be the first to shake that hand!” he cried.

“I wouldn’t,” I whispered to Cliffy.

Not gold. Platinum.