When one of the co-owners of this paper told me that she had turned my social media posts into a column called “Words From Woods,” I was stunned, then – flattered. Though I had been conscripted into the service of this publication, I embraced and celebrated my capture. I had written and self-published newsletters for an electrical contractor and the advertising department of a major store in St. Louis, and a spoof publication for a bar that sponsored my pool team, but this – serious writing – was a new and scary endeavor. I aimed for the fences with my columns and believe that I achieved a high batting average, but, nine years on, time weighs heavily on the arm.
Someone asked me about my writing process, and I chuckled. I try to maintain a semblance of discipline in my approach to my craft, but, as I told the inquirer, some of my columns are “born full-grown. Some have to be nourished and raised to maturity before they can be sent out to join the world.” I can re-read some of my earlier columns and think, “I really leaned into that one,” or wipe away the tears that can still be generated by another. One of my bosses at the paper labeled me as “a humorist,” because of my penchant for injecting laughter into my submissions and I will cackle about a column, thinking, “I crack myself up!” I write about myself, my family and friends, with the hope that my view of the world can be of interest to readers. But, as George W. Bush is reputed to have said in the early days of his presidency, “This is hard work.”
I get some occasional feedback from readers that is helpful in determining the worth of my efforts. One reader told me that she believed that I had “a chip on my shoulder;” another questioned my usage of the term “eldest,” as a descriptor for my first daughter while another used my own words to suggest that I was a “no-fact-checking” journalist, who needed to utilize Wikipedia. Of course, it has not been all rocks and stones, and when a 3×5 notecard shows up at the office with the note, “Cj’s column ‘Linda’ was great,” and with the recent discovery that a long-time reader knows members of my family, I get renewed.
My son told me that his Uncle Larry’s friend has been reading my column for years, and just figured out who I was. Larry is my former brother-in-law. (Larry is a former Marine, and since Marines cannot not be called “ex,” I call Larry my “former” bother-in-law.) My second bride reinforced the tale (my son can be a little vague on details) when she reminded me of her brother’s friend, Doug. I’ve not seen Doug since at least, the Great Strip-Bar Fight. (See: “Fight Club.”) A recent column I wrote about my son enabled him to connect my name to his friend’s sister’s former husband, and prompted him to send a message I’ve interpreted as one of hope: he’s been reading my column for “about five years.”
And so it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut has penned. Once I heard of Doug’s readership (for which I am grateful), I was ready for another at-bat. As I faced down my keyboard, I thought of Reggie Jackson’s October, 1977 World Series performance, when he took three swings at three pitches from three different pitchers and launched three home runs. I cannot possibly replicate Jackson’s feat, metaphorically speaking, but I am going to try to make contact, reach bases, and improve my batting average.