By Michael J. Tittinger Hey, Mikey
THERE’S A LITTLE BOOK HERE ON MY home office shelf entitled “How to Avoid Making Art” that I pull from time to time... typically when I’m looking to avoid making art. It’s wedged in there between “The Alchemist” and “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.” So every time I need a reprieve from feeling the guilt of not seeking out my Personal Legend or documenting my great American memoir, I thumb through the 60-odd illustrated pages instructing me to “Take seriously every negative thing someone says,” “Tell yourself you need to relax rather than create, that you’ll write later,” and “Talk about it so you don’t have to do it” — all with a caustic tongue planted firmly in cheek.
Such was the case in recent weeks when I convinced myself I’d resume writing a regular column. I’d previously written for the Daily Press under the banner “Tittinger’s Take” — which, of course, my loyal readers would hold up in comparison some four years later. Add the pressure of having since become the editor of said paper, and the pressure to perform mounted.
Best to consult my book. Page 48: “Read all the forwarded e-mails from your friends until there isn’t time to write your novel.” Sound advice.
Eventually, I settled on the ideal avoidance — picking a new name for my column.
“Tittinger’s Take” had its run. Back then, my column was the time-sucking vortex that quite successfully prohibited me from completing the screenplays I moved to California to throw down on an unsuspecting world. It proved brilliant. Having quit my paying jobs to write at home full time, I could widdle away at least one weary day per week waxing philosophic on my persistent eyebrow twitch, the homeless guy sleeping in my carport and other non sequiturs that shouldn’t have precluded me from finishing the second act of “Three Dicks and a Chick.”
How about “Yo, Guy,” a nod to my Philadelphia roots? An inside joke that more likely would have been misinterpreted as a rainbow-friendly answer to “Sex and the City;” I could have placed a ‘the” in front, perhaps. But “The Yo Guy” makes me sound like I should be sitting Lotus-style, smacking of patchouli oil and channeling my inner Kierkegaard. Balboa, not so much.
“From the Back Office.” It alludes to my geographic place in the newsroom, as well as being editor, yet it rings a little dirty for some reason. I could hear Jim Morrison in my head: “Oh, yeah, I’m a back office man. The reporters don’t know, But the little interns understand.” Wrong, wrong, wrong. How am I gonna write a column when I can’t even decide on a freakin’ title?
“Hey, Mikey.” Thank you, sweet diversion. It’s Tessa, our production manager, on the intercom.
“There’s some girl on the phone... says she wants to be your new intern.”
I better take this... and hopefully a few more calls after that. Page 33 of “How to Avoid Making Art” suggests “answering the phone every time it rings.”
As with most things, the phone calls too did pass. All right, what does an editor do? They muss their hair and scribble madly with red pens. “In the red.” Punchy, double-meaning, works on a lot of levels. I could even have red editorial markings circling and scratching out letters in the title. It’s perfect... or does it sound like I’m shilling for Bobby Shriver and Bono or something? And it’s negative. Who the hell wants to be in the red? What about “In the read” (as in past tense of read... OK, if I’m explaining the title in parenthesis here, that’s not a good sign.) “800 words.”“Writer’s Block.”“Edit this.” I’m struggling here.
“Hey, Mikey.” It’s Connie, our operations manager, on the intercom. Bless her interruptive soul.“There’s a woman on the phone who wants to pitch a story about a bakery for dogs. Do you want to take the call?”
Umm, yeah. I want to hear everything she has to say... twice. Alas, nothing can last forever. I’m still alone at my desk, and I’ve reached the end of my book. The last page tells me to “Hide from the crazymakers in your life instead of setting boundaries. Hiding makes it tough to do your art.”
Enough already. Ultimately, the title isn’t going to make or break this column, and I won’t be requiring the perfect lighting and noise level in order to hammer it out. What’s a column anyway if not a running conversation with readers? The title should be approachable, something that speaks to such an exchange. It should be unavoidable.
“Hey, Mikey.” It’s another call... but I think it’s time to set some boundaries with the crazymakers.
I got my title, and it came from you.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on October 3, 2007. Read the original PDF.