RIVER CITY JOURNAL: PROOF! YOU'RE NOT GETTING OLDER; YOU'RE JUST GETTING BETTER

The next time you see the white-haired editor, go ahead and tell him he looks better in person than in his weekly photo.

Every writer thinks every word he puts in every sentence in every paragraph is inspired, if not by the Almighty, then by some muse who is immune to the picky needling of ordinary folks -- like editors.

As an editor, I have had countless encounters with writers willing to duke it out or duel at dawn over a single word or phrase. As a writer, I feel their pain -- who said that? -- when another editor makes changes in my deathless -- should that be deadly? -- prose.

For all the writing I've done as a journalist over the past 32 years, it continues to amaze me that there exists such a Grand Canyon between what writers hope they will be remembered for and what readers actually glean from the printed page.

Take this column, for example.

I am amused and sometimes baffled -- but always interested -- when readers comment on my weekly scribbling. I am always impressed when readers react to the heart of the point I was trying to make, no matter how poorly it was disguised by a lot of other drivel.

To make the reader's job easier with this column, let me come right to the point:

I have written well over 1,600 columns over the years. Sometimes I have tried to be serious, but more often I have tried to prick the skulls of readers in a humorous way. If we can laugh about life, we can live a long time. I really believe that.

Of those 1,600-plus columns, I would guess that readers have reacted to the point I wanted to make approximately three times. No, make that exactly three times.

I won't go into detail, except to say that, statistically speaking, readers have missed the point of 99.8 percent of my columns. That isn't to say that readers didn't benefit from my columns. I take some pride in the fact that readers can recite whole sentences from columns I wrote years ago. That's impressive -- and clearly I made a lasting impression, which certainly is a good goal for any writer.

Without a doubt, the column that has made the biggest dent on readers since I've been in Cape Girardeau -- nearly three years now -- is the one I wrote about losing weight. Remember? I ran before-and-after photos to illustrate my golden words. Pictures still speak loudest.

That was more than a year and a half ago. The No. 1 comment I hear about my column to this day is about those photos. Heck, I didn't even take those pictures, much less write the volumes they apparently spoke.

OK. Now look at the photo of me with today's column. It's new. I've lost a little more weight, which is good news considering my history of gaining back more than I lose in fairly regular 10-year cycles. And I have new glasses. And my hair is not whiter, although I will concede that the distinguished gray highlights continue to improve as time marches on.

I wish I had a dollar for every time one of you has asked me, "How did you lose so much weight?" I hesitate to reply, because there is no magic diet. Sensible living. That's about the best I can do. Eat the way your mother wanted you to. More vegetables and fruit. Avoid deep-fried anything. Eat three meals a day on a regular schedule. Exercise. Get your mind ready for living differently.

Those sound like good titles for chapters in a book. It would be a good book too. Every word would be golden. Trust me. But it wouldn't be a book about dieting, which means most of you wouldn't read it, because there would be no quick-fix formulas like "Eat six bananas a day for four weeks, then steak every meal until you achieve your weight-loss goal." Sorry. I've heard some doctors hereabouts have endorsed similar diets. Shame on them.

By the way, if I had a dollar for every time you asked about my diet, I'd almost have enough for a good chicken-fried steak dinner. Which I eat occasionally, because I think God invented deep frying for a reason: It tastes so good. But I don't eat chicken-fried steak very often for the same reason I don't take baths in creosote. It wouldn't be very good for me.

You've put up with this prattle long enough. Take a look at the photo. The next time you see me, feel free to comment. After all, you're the reason I don't order french fries any more, much less super-size them.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.