The McCollumn - 8/26: "I liked that mailbox, too"

There is a small part of me that somewhat feels the need to apologize for what some may view as an inappropriate outburst in last week’s McCollumn.

In the latter half of the column, I admit to being a bit free-wheeling with my emotions and, more importantly, my use of rather ... ahem ... “taboo” language.

Some of you made your displeasure known to me; some I heard about second-hand.

I perhaps should have thought better about the words I used in this weekly space I’m graciously allotted.

I should have remembered that I could have thought up replacement words, words parents of small children have relied upon for ages.

I also should have remembered who my readership is.

Yes, I should have remembered all of those things, but I didn’t.

I was having a vivid emotional reaction to having a piece of my property set on fire while I was at home and awake, and I actually thought it necessary to put out that reaction.

I reached my Howard Beale moment. I was “mad as hell” and I just couldn’t take it any more.

Writing has always been an escape for me, a way to process emotions and thoughts I can’t seem to work out by just kicking them around my head.

If I see them in front of me, in print, I can judge their validity, finding out what’s worth worrying about and what’s worth ignoring.

For a great deal of time, this column, this weekly visit with all of you, was a purer expression of that sort of thinking.

I said what I thought about a number of things, from city political issues to random goings-on about town and my own life.

That changed with the City Reporter gig. I muzzled myself, and in doing so, created the shaken-up Coke bottle of misspent rage you saw last week.

A small part of me wants to apologize for you having to see that.

However, I also must admit that same misspent rage turned out to produce one of the most authentic pieces of writing I’ve written in months.

If this column is supposed to continue to be an interesting thing to read, it needs to remain authentic.

I can always tell when I’m faking it, and I know several of you can, too.

I’m caught in a problem I’ve often found myself in: balancing appropriateness with authenticity.

Maybe I need a private blog, some place to log other writing.

It seems to me, though, the things you, the readers, have most responded to is usually the pieces I’ve put that sort of raw emotion into as a catalyst.

Good writing, at least what I consider good writing for me, requires such start-ups.

I apologize if any of you were offended, and I certainly understand why you were.

As an English major, I simply felt the need to provide a small amount of context for you this week.

Context always matters. This I will always believe.

We’ll continue this journey, you and I, dear reader.

I can’t promise I won’t continue to make you angry or disappointed, but I’ll do my best to continue to be me. That’s the best I can do.

The new policy “Let Cliff be Cliff” doesn’t have to support going for the lowbrow laugh ... most of the time.

After all, I am still me, folks.