The birth of a column

Modern life includes a number of assumptions so fundamental that we rarely pause to assess them. We assume the sun will rise in the morning, set in the evening and that humanities majors will one day find gainful employment.

Hell, you probably assume  restraining orders will keep me from following you and watching you as you read this.

Judging from the shocked look on your face, an expression that is hard to read while hiding around this corner, you are reassessing several of the things you take for granted. If you’ll allow me to interject, I’d like to indulge in a moment of self pity and note that a lot is assumed of college news publications.

Much like where babies come from, the creation and subsequent birth of a newspaper column often involves pulling things from publically unacceptable orifices aided by a liberal application of lube.

Step 1: Picking a topic. This is all well and good, provided someone has done something astoundingly stupid recently. Frankly, this doesn’t happen nearly often enough. The topic of gun control has recently been beaten into the ground, the so-called fiscal cliff has past and no one really cares about the inauguration.

In lieu of something exciting or humorous to cover, columnists like myself are forced to resort to “Step 2.”

Step 2: Buying more alcohol. At a certain point, your only hope is that, given a liberal enough application of liquor, you will find something to suddenly inspire reader interest. Unfortunately, you realize you’ve finished the bottle of emergency bourbon several paragraphs ago. Hardened writers, like the IDS professionals, do not panic.

Running out of liquor right before deadlines was one of the sacrifices we made when we traded our souls for mind-boggling sexual prowess, eternal youth and several other things that we can’t legally mention until the statute of limitations expires. There is no choice.

It is your duty as a columnist to don your coat and walk through the frigid weather to the last store in Bloomington still foolish enough to sell you liquor. That’s when you suddenly remember that it is a Sunday in Indiana, which means the sale of alcohol is prohibited.

Step 3: Righteous anger. This is tricky, because for the inexperienced writer righteous anger feels remarkably similar to all that bourbon you recently consumed. However, you’re pretty certain you’re furious.

Indiana is the one state in the country that refuses to sell liquor on Sundays, thanks to antiquated religious practices. This law is a clear violation of the separation between church and state. It is your sacred duty to lead an uprising to overthrow the tyrannical regime that allows this madness.

Step 4: Seppuku. Frankly, no one cares about Indiana liquor laws, whether or not they are legitimately problematic. But as I prepare to ritually disembowel myself for failing to change the world with this column, I’d like to remind you that this is really your fault.
Journalism doesn’t change the world, but you do. If what you read in news pisses you off, that’s good. That means you’ve been paying attention. But if you want to read something exciting in the paper tomorrow, you should go make it happen.

Or maybe throw us writers a bone, and you could go commit some bafflingly strange felonies so we have something to write about.

­— stefsoko@indiana.edu