Letters to the Forlorn : ‘I still want to know how you can enjoy that kind of life.’

Due to positions I often take on subjects of an inflammatory suburban nature, such as whether dogs ought to be allowed to bark after 9 at night, I find myself the recipient of letters that demand answers, atonement, retraction, prayer or just plain clarification.

My usual response is no response at all for several weeks or even months, allowing a sufficient period of time to pass not only for purposes of cooling off, but also for purposes of forgetting.

I mean, if I reply with a note three months late that says, “You are absolutely wrong about the fat lady in Arleta,” and you have only a vague memory of what I wrote in the first place, you aren’t going to be able to sustain a convincing argument on the merits of your position relative to my original column.

That works especially well if you are old and contentious, as most of you seem to be, and have a tendency to forget. I regard the technique as a clever, if not brilliant, reaction to criticism without being boorish. I didn’t get to be a big-city columnist by sitting still while the people pelted me with pig-slop.

Occasionally, however, I find it impossible to delay a response due to conditions that attend the situation, such as imminent death or summer vacation, so I employ this method to reply more or less promptly.

For instance, a week or so before the semester ended, I agreed to appear before the combined fifth- and sixth-grade classes at Burbank’s Joaquin Miller School to define what it is I do for a living, although I’m not quite sure myself. I know I sit at a word processor and I know I move my fingers, but what happens after that is a mystery.

I rarely appear in public because of that simple inability to articulate how I go about doing what I do, but was convinced by my wife it would probably be a good idea to get a fix on it in the unlikely event our grandchildren should someday ask.

So I went to Burbank and spent time with some remarkably bright young people who helped restore my faltering faith in anyone under 30. Some of them were so bright, in fact, I suspect they were not young people at all but adult midgets with graduate degrees in logic.

They asked dozens of questions, most of which I was able to answer, including how many times I have been beaten up, how long I have been writing and whether or not I had to sleep with an editor in order to be given a column.

Subsequent to my appearance, many of the students wrote notes of appreciation, no doubt prompted by teachers Holly Golden and Margo Holmes, who at all times during my talk stood by ready to quell an uprising among the kids should one occur.

I found the student comments compelling and informative and wanted to share some of them today even though school is out and many of the kids and their families are off to Lake Isabella, or wherever it is Burbank families vacation.

I have intermixed with the letters some of the questions they asked in class, which, as you will see, are especially revealing:

“Thanks for coming. I practically found out whatever I wanted to find out about you.”

Good. I practically said everything I had to say about me.

“Because I was in the back of the room, I couldn’t hear you that well, but I still had fun.”

Possibly even more fun.

“A lot of the kids in class say I’m going to be a writer, but I write long stories and it’s hard work.”

Try shorter ones.

“What’s your favorite column?”

The one I finish.

“You don’t have a very loud voice, but I mainly understood what you were saying.”

I’d speak louder, but I’m not sure it’s worth understanding. You mainly might be disappointed.

“I still want to know how you can enjoy that kind of life.”

By remembering that the only alternative is to do real work. I shudder at the very notion and go on pecking away at this.

“Is there something else you’d rather do?”

To quote another writer, Paul Fussell: “If I didn’t have writing, I’d be running down the street hurling grenades in people’s faces.”

“Will you ever apologize for a column?”

Not until Jane Fonda apologizes for “Barbarella.”

“It’s amazing how much you write in one week. Do they pay you more for writing more?”

Well . . . no. As a reporter I wrote more and made less. As a columnist, I write less and they pay me more. I don’t understand the formula, but I buy the result.

“Do you know (editorial cartoonist) Paul Conrad?”

Does anyone?

“Out of all the people who talked to our class, you are among the top five.”

I don’t want to know the other four.

“You never did tell us your greatest moment.”

The day I ate pizza with Michael J. Fox.

“Sometimes your columns are a little complicated and hard to understand.”

Sometimes they’re a little complicated and hard to write.

“It would be funny if you wrote a column about us.”

I believe it would be.

“You the greatest righter I ever met.”

Thanks. You the greatest reeder.