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Where does a writer draw the line between private and public?
By MORYT MILO
It's Sunday morning, and I'm walking around the house mumbling. My son glances over at me and asks, "What's up, Mom?"
I reply, "Don't have a clue what to write in my column this week. Got any ideas?"
He offers his suggestions, but I decide they're too personal. My 8-year-old tends to be very forthcoming about everything we do. He still hasn't discovered the full meaning of discretion. And, ironically, over the past year, I have found myself dealing with that very issue.
As a columnist, there are many times when I want to use certain incidents in my own family life to bring home a point. Yet how much of my family and myself do I want to expose? It would be simple enough; just a few strokes on the keypad and full disclosure is on its way.
But then I think, "If I talk about that my daughter will have a fit. ... If I bring up what happened yesterday maybe I'll embarrass my son. ... What about that discussion I had with my husband? ... Nope, definitely off limits."
As a columnist, everything I experience with my family has the potential to become a story and they know it. So, sometimes they eye me warily, wondering if I'm going to blow the whistle on them.
I reflect on this, giving my daughter a quizzical look as she passes through the living room on her way to the kitchen.
"What's going on Mom?" she asks.
"I'm stuck," I say. "Can't figure out what to write in the column this week."
Without even pausing she answers, "Oh I'm sure you'll come up with something."
The "I'm stuck" remark didn't get such cavalier responses a year ago. When I first started writing for the Silicon Valley Community Newspapers, my kids thought it was pretty cool. They drove around Campbell with me scouting things out. They offered me titles for my stories; they even pitched me their own ideas. And when the paper arrived and they saw my byline, I'd hear, "Way to go, Mom!"
There was the day my son and I walked into the Heritage Village post office and Priscilla, the postal worker who always helps me, said, "Read your story in the Campbell Reporter." Then she asked me about my friend, Ben.
When my son and I walked out the door he looked at me in awe. "Mom, you're like a celebrity," he said. "Everyone knows you." Even though "everyone" equaled one person, the pride I saw in his eyes made my day.
Or, there was the time I wrote about my daughter taking piano lessons. After she read the column she said, "My friend Brianna would die to have a story about her in the newspaper. Thanks, Mom!" Again, worth every word I had plunked down on the page.
And, not to be forgotten, there's my husband, who reads all my columns and finds some funny, some touching, and some that make him glad I have a place to vent besides our home.
My neighbors and friends got into it, also. They introduced me to fellow Campbellites as, "Hi, have you met Moryt? She writes for The Campbell Reporter." And when logging on to check my email, I discovered complete strangers voicing their opinions and comments to me through cyberspace.
It seems that, ever since I started writing this column, my mind is no longer my own. I find myself frequently reviewing daily conversations and happenings on a two-tiered level. Level One is as it should be; the non-writer in me just trying to go about my business. But then there is Level Two, which bullies its way in and shouts, "Hey, I think I got a story here!" There are times when Level Two can be a big pain in the you-know-where.
Of course, there's pretty much a story in everything. It just depends on how deep you want to look. Some weeks the story is so obvious it just screams to be told. Those weeks I don't give privacy a second thought, because the message is too important. Other times things aren't so clear, and I sit there debating my comfort zone.
Yet, no matter what story finally makes it to print, the important thing is that for someone, my words triggered a laugh, a tear, a nod, a chuckle, a call to action, or, maybe, just a simple feeling of being understood. That's one of the things that makes being a columnist unique.
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Cupertino, California Since 1947
