Readers and writers blog

Thinking about contradictions I’ve found in a most excellent weblog called Outer Life has gotten me to thinking about a contradiction in my own life:

In 38 years as a print journalist, I hated to write about writers. Oh sure, we wrote for the readers, not the subject, but think about it: Writing about a writer is like cooking for a chef. Intimidating. And the better the writer, the more I hated it.

That’s how I feel about the guy who writes Outer Life.

Consider this, the conclusion of his Dec. 14 entry about how to write a eulogy:

So, you see, it isn’t easy to write a eulogy. And the hardest part is, if you’ve done it right, your words will slice through you as you read them, your eyes will water, your throat will constrict until you can no longer resist the tears. Consumed by sorrow, no longer capable of reading or speaking, you’ll just stand there wracked with sobs as the audience looks up, no longer hearing your words but instead experiencing the depths of your pain, pain that is, after all, the most eloquent eulogy.

Or, in his June 14 entry, walking with his 9-year-old daughter on the beach at twilight, pondering the stars overhead, the grains of sand under foot, comparing the vast numbers of each:

At the time, I was going to drive the point home to her with the stars-as-grains-of-sand-analogy, but I thought better of it. Let her try to process the solar system first. Her 9-year-old mind has been stretched quite enough for one day . . . I feel her cold little hand find mine, and I squeeze it, gently but firmly, not wanting to let it go.

‘Your hands are always so warm,’ she says, then, before I can say anything, she asks: ‘Daddy, are there more stars in the sky or grains of sand on the beach?’

And it’s not just heartbreaking truth or warm-and-fuzzy gloaming. This guy can write in any tone about any subject — like a children’s birthday party he describes in his Jan. 18, 2005, entry:

The invitation arrived on Tuesday for a birthday party on Sunday. At 10 a.m. Bowling at Buddy’s Bowl-O-Rama. For a 4-year-old . . . Late invitation — strike one. Bowling for 4-year-olds — strike two. 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning — strike three. So I threw the invitation out.

Big mistake. You see, the mom who sent the late invitation called the next day to harvest RSVPs. My wife answered the phone and, not having seen the invitation and unable to invent an excuse in time, she cracked under the pressure. We were stuck. Or, I should say, I was stuck for, according to the strict laws of my people, I must clean up my own messes.

And if you think you’ve been dumped by a significant other, I commend to you his March 17, 2005, entry entitled ‘Five Words.’ I will tell you only that the five words are “I need to see you.”

By the way, don’t make the same mistake I initially did in thinking that his archives go back only until September 2006. Actually, his entries date back to November 2003, but the site’s format limits the archives list on the main page to the most recent 10 months. You have to click on the heading ‘ARCHIVES’ itself to get the full list — a fact that isn’t immediately apparent because all the other similar headings in the sidebar are not links.

So who is this guy? He doesn’t tell us. We do know from his writing that he is about 40, married, with two children, lives in the suburbs and has a pretty good job in an office that he’s not too happy about. And we know he is a man of contradictions:

I have this contrarian streak. Unlike most contrarians, who say that proudly, I say it as a confession because my contrarianism is a sign of weakness, not strength. When everyone zigs, I instinctively zag, not so much because I pride myself on walking my own path, but because I’m afflicted with the ability to feel both insecure and too secure at the same time. My insecure side assumes I’m already too late to get in on the action . . . while my over-secure side assumes I know better than the masses. (May 17)

There’s also the contradiction of the blog’s name. Because if anything, this man’s introspective reflections should be called Inner Life.

And finally, there’s the picture on the blog (see above), which made me expect an older man until I realized that the lively octogenarian in the photo is one of our mystery blogger’s favorite authors, P.G. Wodehouse. I should have known, since Wodehouse is using a manual typewriter, not the usual equipment for a blogger.

But Mr. Outer Life isn’t the usual blogger. Which is why his is the latest addition to our blogroll of well-written sites.

– Sid Leavitt