4 weeks, 4 days, 4 hours
It will no doubt distress my patient editors at the Kenosha News to have me pierce the cloak of trade secrecy that permits professional writers long lunches. Nevertheless, here's the dirty secret of the writing trade: nothing gets written without 1) a deadline and 2) a hook. The only difference between published writers and unpublished writers is that published writers create deadlines for themselves, and keep them. Hacks never finish the Next Great Thing, so it remains ever the Next Great Thing.
"Hooks" are the tricks writers use to hang together disjointed ideas and gags. Commonest among them is probably the Top Ten list; for an example, see next month's column, "Top Ten Things I Should Have Written About In My First Ten Columns."
I mention all this because I recently discovered that it takes exactly four weeks, four days and four hours to write this monthly essay. (My gracious editors must also wonder why these lovingly polished gems show up almost as the ink is flowing to the presses, if they take so little time to write. But that's a different column.) Soon I began noticing similar patterns all around me, and thus was born a hook.
4 weeks, 4 days, 4 hours: Four weeks of casting about for a topic that's important; if it's not important to me, why imagine it's important to you? Next comes four days of capturing ideas. Note to self: commit to pulling over to the side of the road when an idea bubbles up, instead of scribbling on a bank receipt on the steering wheel. Not good. Finally, it takes about four hours to assemble those notes into a coherent whole. The best part; I walk around the house hollering, "I love this part." It's probably good that I work at home.
5 years, 5 months, 5 days: How long it takes to get a new cell phone. When I had toddlers, I tore through cell phones in about 12 months. Eventually, I purchased the toughest handset around, a big blue candy bar from Sanyo. Indestructible, it survived being dropped, submerged, and having a door slammed on it. Wreak your worst, it calmly ejected its battery and lay there patiently, waiting for you to pop in the battery, power it up and carry on unaffected. A real champ.
"I don't deserve good things" issues prevent me from being an early adopter who races out and gets new gizmos, despite deep gizmophilia. So, replacing a perfectly good phone just because I wanted to have instant, unmetered web look-ups of Samuel Johnson quotations? Well, that just seemed disloyal. That's why it took five years to wear down the battery, and for the model and its replacement parts to have been discontinued, before I could permit myself the luxury of considering a new phone.
Next came five months of shilly-shallying. Could I afford a better service plan, or justify spending the cash instead of taking the freebie upgrade? Finally, I found the perfect excuse: I could take the nominal stipend earned writing this column and use it to buy the phone! Guilt-free! Better still, I could apply future stipends to the cost of a better service plan. Guilt free again!
From that point on, it's taken only five days to "research all the options" (uh-huh) before settling on the iPhone I've coveted since they first came out. It arrives next week. Let's hope it doesn't take the kids five hours to break it.
12 months, 12 weeks, 12 days, 12 hours: How long it takes to get from Madrigal Feaste to Madrigal Feaste. Twelve months of planning. Twelve weeks of auditions, jester rehearsals, retreats. Twelve Days of Christmas. A mere 12 hours actually on stage with these tremendous performers, musicians, servers, and adult volunteers. My Christmas season doesn't really begin until, performing as Lorde High Chamberlain, I get to bellow "TRUMPETS! Sound your clarion call! And singers: hie thee to the hall!" I beg thy pledge: join us again 12 months hence.
12 years, 12 weeks, 12 days: How long I've been feverishly, burstingly, gleefully married to my wife. Wow. Every day I thank God for the blessing of perfect companionship, co-parenting, and joyful love shared with my sweet wife.
Maybe one could be a little less showy than trumpeting this in the newspaper, but doggone it, good marriages are hard enough to find, and need to be celebrated. Indeed, our kids and their friends need to see constantly that adults in love treat each other with affection, respect, and even common courtesy.
Until now, few people have known that despite my obvious flaws, I have still managed to win Husband of The Month a record 148 consecutive months. (Previous record: one. No one else has ever repeated.) The secret, in case any husbands are curious, is not Valentine's roses, diamonds or trips to Vegas. At least I hope not, or I've been badly misinformed. Nope, the secret is: clean the bathroom. Start the van at 6:30 a.m. when it's five below zero. Vacuum the house before leaving for a trip, so she'll be glad you're coming back.
Everyday, do some small thing that shows that the convenience, comfort, and peace of mind of someone else occupies a place in your daily thoughts and deeds.
Everyday, do some small thing that shows that the convenience, comfort, and peace of mind of someone else occupies a place in your daily thoughts and deeds.
Have a nice day. Happy New Year. Live happily ever after. The inevitable result of applying the previous advice. Also, how to close an essay with a hook. Nice.