To earn his readers’ indulgence, a writer must take care that articles about himself be of exceptional literary quality or recount exceptional experiences, preferably experiences that impart wisdom that can be shared or—better, in my opinion—anecdotes that can be appropriated as one’s own.

 

These sort-of reminiscences about my life in Springfield satisfy none of those criteria. Those expecting confessionals also will be disappointed; my personal column-writing maxim was to never write about anything I did not find interesting, and never, ever write about anything that really means something to me.

 

Piling them all up for the first time I was surprised at how many times I resorted to my Springfield youth as a topic—four dozen. Trust me, it was that interesting. But while there were always more important things for me to write about as column deadline drew nigh, I wasn't always ready to write about important things. I post them without shame because 1) they less than one half of one percent of my column out put and 2) my youth in Springfield, while anything but unusual, recommends itself as a subject because anyone who grew up in the 1950s in that town or any town like it will find things about my experience of the place that recall theirs.  

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See also The author for more about my working life.