Nobody Reads This Page – “Expert”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

One of the advantages to writing a regular column nobody reads is that observations and opinions may be offered freely, without any fear of squawking or consternation from family members, neighbors, or friends. Thus, after years of dodging some sort of official acclaim as a creative scribe, the sinkhole into which I have descended has become a safe spot worth defending. Being notable or lavished with praise does not have much appeal at this point in my personal journey. Instead, I relish the privilege to speak in print without preconditions, or the guardrails of an editor’s mindset.

 

For a wordsmith, slinging prose is like breathing. An act that must persist all day, every day.

 

But recently, while checking my neglected social media accounts, I found a solicitation of sorts. One sent by a person somehow affiliated with the popular business site Linkedin. The breezy, upbeat tone they employed made me pause and tilt my head while pondering. Was this an authentic appeal for potential advice? The sender stayed politely anonymous, yet seemed respectable. Had they read any of my work which was posted for public review? I couldn’t be certain. Carefully, I read through their message several times, before attempting to pass judgment:

 

“You’re part of an exclusive group of new experts (!)

Hi Rod, we’re bringing together top experts to share their knowledge in an exciting new way: collaborative articles. Because of your expertise, we’ve selected you to be one of the early contributors. Join in by adding an example from your experience, sharing a different opinion or expanding on an idea, contributing directly into the body of one of these articles:

What's your strategy for navigating unclear academic writing?

How do you use newsletters and blogs to stay up-to-date with copywriting trends?

K.C. - Head of Community at Linkedin”

 

This unexpected note made me realize that despite the declaration of my own shy and reclusive masthead, some in the vastness of cyberspace must actually be following along. That revelation snapped my eyes open and made me sit up straight.

 

“Damn! The truth is out there!”

 

The cloak of anonymity that I had worn for intellectual cover suddenly seemed to rip away like a bedsheet off the clothesline, in a windstorm. I felt naked, sitting in front of my computer. This odd sensation might have caused me to lose me to lose my nerve while riding a wave crest of inspiration. But then, from the top of my desk, an old landline telephone began to ring. One covered with dust that marked it as a device rarely used in modern times.

 

When answering, the voice in my ear sounded unduly gruff and direct.

 

“Rodney? Is this still your number, young man?”

 

I huffed and hacked while clearing my throat. The caller’s tone sounded very much like that of Ezekiel Byler-Gregg, Editor Emeritus of the Burton Daily Bugle. A friend from past days when members of the Geauga newspaper community used to meet at McDonald’s on Water Street in Chardon, for coffee and trade discussions.

 

“Young man? Hey, I’m in my 60’s, friend! Do I know you?”

 

This retort made him guffaw with a voluminous burst of amusement. I could imagine him stretching out in his denim overalls, and scratching his long, gray beard.

 

“You sound like a farm hand with more spunk than common sense! I figure your chances of lasting in an Amish clan would be just about nil. It’s a darn good thing you know how to doodle on a notepad! Anyway... how have you been, kleine bruder?”

 

I was slightly embarrassed.

 

“Zeke, I don’t think you’ve called since I was with the Maple Leaf newspaper. We parted company in 2014. But the split was amiable. I have stayed active ever since. Writing books, creating more blogs and column series along the way...”

 

My senior cohort muttered softly while listening. I could hear him rustling paperwork in his rural office. Once, a tool shed next to a milk barn.

 

“Books? Well now, that’s quite a step up from having your work appear in newsprint. Folks use our medium to line bird cages or clean windows, after they’re done checking out the headlines. That’s a humbling reality, you know? It keeps me down to earth. I don’t get too full of myself.”

 

I nodded in agreement, while holding the telephone receiver.

 

“Today though, something hit my inbox that scrambled the paradigm. A lady said she was gathering a team of experts for an online panel. This was through a career site, a place where professionals interact and advise each other. The term she used raised my eyebrows. Expert? Am I an expert of any kind? That just made me go numb. Am I an expert at anything?”

 

Ezekiel growled like a slumbering bear.

 

“Hmm. I’d have to wonder about that for a spell. Expert? Yes, I reckon some might hang that tag on me, after all these years at the helm of a local weekly. Or maybe because I used to herd cattle and plow the fields. I don’t know. It’d make me feel uncomfortable! But then, if being looked at like a stallion made a difference to someone coming of age, well that’d be okay. Color me happy to oblige!”

 

I nodded again, knowing that my friend could not see this silent gesture.

 

“I’ve always considered myself to be a typewriter hack. Maybe a hacktivist of a primitive kind, a prose pirate. I do my thing, tell my stories. Yet have never tried to climb the ladder. That goes against the grain, I think. I figure things out by doing and watching others...”

 

My tutor from Burton paused to let this confession seep into his brain.

 

“Rodney, I’d concur with that spread of manure. Though you shouldn’t take my remark as an insult. I know you’ve got pride in your labor, we all do, really. But staying close to the ground makes sense. I like humility. The Bible teaches that, if you are a believer. The older I get, the more I question things. I’m not so sure what I believe nowadays. But believe me, I do believe. Understand?”

 

I had gotten lost in his reasoning. He sounded wise, but still able to go forward on his walk of faith.

 

“I can’t put it into words, but yes. That makes sense to me...”

 

The newspaper veteran lowered his voice to a whisper.

 

“So, what kind of ink slinging have you done lately? What keeps you in the saddle? What keeps you at your desk? What makes you remain a seeker of truth?”

 

I had to gulp down a feeling of inadequacy.

 

“Well, it’s in my family DNA, I think. One of my cousins recently spoke about her young daughter writing stories after school. Lots of crazy plotlines and characters, and experiments. I was beaming with validation. It sounded like so many of us in my brood. That’s how it began for me...”

 

Ezekiel grunted and laughed out loud.

 

“So there you go, boy! You are an expert after all! Be proud of it and don’t hold your cards so close. Share your knowledge! Help the next generation get along. That’s what old folks like myself did for you!”

 

I was nearly speechless. He had hit the bullseye.

 

“Well, there you have it...”

 

The dial tone filled my ear before it was possible to give a complete answer. I sat there for several minutes, with my head down and eyes closed. The screen of my iMac glowed with a blank, white slate of emptiness. It seemed to beg for useful input as I struggled to comprehend what had just transpired.

 

Then, I began to write.