Eskewpades

CAN WE TALK? When our kids were little, I read them a story about a duck who chattered incessantly. One of our rugrats blurted out, “Boy, Chatter Duck sure chatters a lot — just like you, Daddy.” Out of the mouths of babes. Then and now, my motored mouth rarely stops running. Even when I’m alone. Maybe even especially when I’m alone. Keeps me company, ya know. As a shameless wind machine, my heart swelled with delight when I read that scientists had concluded that compulsively talking to oneself, though socially gnarly, actually benefits one’s mental and physical health. I regard column-writing as a glorified inner monologue. Most of the time, the act of writing liberates me to magically talk to myself while giving my melodious larynx a rest. But I quickly become bored by the silence. Then I remember a wise professor’s assertion — that reading one’s drafts aloud helps writers create the “music” found within alliteration and assonance patterns. Goody, goody