The Agony and The Ecstasy

In ancient Israel the law was, "If thou buy a Hebrew servant, six years shall he serve; and, in the seventh, he shall go out free for nothing." (Exodus XXI, 2)

Only upon viewing the Editors Note heading my column in the April 1988 issue of the B'nai B'rith Record did I fully realize that I had embarked on my seventh year as a columnist. Had I discovered the fact sooner I might have requested at least a sabbatical if not outright freedom.

No, I'm not going to say it seems like only yesterday. That's trite and, besides, it's not true.

It has been a tortuous, arduous six years — and yet for every moment of pain and suffering there have been the more than compensating periods of pleasure, gratification and satisfaction. Perhaps it's like a new mother who forgives her nine months of discomfort as well as labor pains in the exhilaration of giving birth to a lovely baby.

It all started casually enough. My friend, Stuart Yale Cohen, assistant to the editors, approached me to write something for the B'nai B'rith Record as the editorial staff was somewhat short of copy for the forthcoming issue.

Never having written for publication, I found the prospect rather daunting. As a nay-sayer by instinct, I resourcefully sought escape hatches.

"What shall I write about?" I asked, hoping I could gracefully plead ignorance of the assigned topic.

"Anything you want," Stuart countered, effectively blocking that exit.

Since I had just given up my active law practice, the excuse of being otherwise too busy would not work and Stuart knew me too well to maneuver around him.

So, in April 1982, there emerged my first column, entitled "The Disappearing Jewish Sports Hero." The following two columns were also on Jewish sports figures, and, with that, I exhausted my sports repertoire and fulfilled my secret yearning to be a sports writer. Jim Murray can relax.

At that juncture I suppose I could have "retired" as a columnist, too, but the use of a forum to express my views was an enticing lure. I had never been loath to expound on myriad matters I felt strongly about, and the opportunity to do so in print proved irresistible.

Tentatively, I began to expand my horizons in subsequent writings.

I expounded on the fickleness of economists ("Tower of Babel"), the dubious value of computer match-ups over the shadchen system ("Computers vs. Random Choice of Marriage Partners"), on stopping smoking ("Never on Sunday"), and on my retirement ("The Rigors and Joys of Retirement"), as well as some political, social, ethical and spiritual commentary.

Gradually and as the feelings percolated within me I wrote about various members of my immediate family ("Hanukkah Reunion," "It was B'Shert," "Father's Day 1983," "Travel and Discovery").

My own personal foibles were not sacrosanct ("Class Reunion — Prologue" and "Depression Legacy").

The conflicting emotions I carried towards my father were resolved by the unvarnished expression of my feelings about him, both before ("The Loss and The Gain") and after his death ("In Memoriam"). It was a most therapeutic exercise which has had lasting salutary consequences for me.

Likewise I dealt beneficially with my sense of loss at the deaths of men who influenced me personally by writing about it ("A Most Unusual Man" and a series about the late Rabbi Abram Maron).

Yet these last six years of writing a monthly column have been the most difficult undertaking in my life. Harder than the CPA exam or the Bar exam — you can study and prepare for those tests.

Never do I have a carefree day anymore.

As soon as one column is completed I begin to think of a topic, a title and a format for the next. This incubation process takes some three weeks as I hatch and develop the work in my head before beginning the initial written draft. Then follows ten more drafts, revisions, shaping and polishing right up to deadline time — and beyond.

If I were paid handsomely and nationally syndicated I could not put forth a more serious and earnest effort. The writing itself is excruciating as I agonize over every word, and only the finished product brings relief.

Yet, I am appreciative of the opportunity to spread my views, to share my thoughts and my feelings.

Having no affinity for painting, poetry or music, I had never been involved in any creative endeavor. And drafting contracts, wills and leases can scarcely be deemed ideal training for column writing.

But it is true that one hones his skills by the act of doing, and writing is no exception.

The real me is reflected in these columns. A stranger or a distant or unborn grandchild could get to know me through them. Indeed, leaving such tangible record of me to my posterity is added motivation for my efforts.

Most gratifying is the written response from readers, equally divided between approval and reproof. Both are welcome. When my views elicit response on the part of others addressing the issue, I consider it ample reward for my efforts.

Surprisingly, the act of writing what lies inside me has a soothing effect. Once it appears in print I feel relieved of a burden, and even critical commentary is not hard to endure.

My friend Stuart has paid for his folly in launching my new career by becoming my factotum. He is my "nudge," and my prodder as well as my editor, my grammar corrector, my confidant. Without him the copy would not read as well nor would it always get done on time or at all. If this be his penance, both my readers and I are the beneficiaries.

Thus, as I look back on the agony and the ecstasy of the past six years, I have many conflicting emotions. When the deadline approaches and the thoughts and words are hard to come by, I think how wonderful it would be to be really free again. However, I quickly banish the impulse as unworthy for I truly believe that to stop writing now would stunt my growth.

But, even as I put the final touches to this column, the sense of relief I'm experiencing is clouded by anxiety: "What in the world shall I write about next month?"