I read something this morning and felt like I'd received a gift

I read a lot. And I read a lot of personal writing -- essays, columns or first-person accounts of something or other, stuff like that.

And I like to think that I recognize honesty in that type of writing, and can gauge when someone's going through the motions, or trying but not really getting there, or unreservedly opening themselves up and standing before me, the reader.

But every now and then I read something that makes me realize I give a lot of writers a pass. I read something that is so bracing, so true, it's pleasantly startling. It is a gift from the writer.

This morning I read Steve Navaroli's column, "Taking a break to battle cancer." Steve, a YDR sports staffers, writes columns as part of his job. But he's never written one like this.

I know Steve as part of our staff here; he's universally known as a good guy. I don't know him well personally.

But I know him better now. Through his act of writing, of honesty and with a perfect sense of an emotional moment, he gave me that gift.

Thanks, Steve. Count me among those looking forward to your return.

The perfect touch

A good friend of mine forwarded me an essay about the late John Wooden by the L.A. Times' Bill Plaschke. "For your TMAS blog thingee," read the e-mail subject line. I suppose I can forgive my friend for referring to this blog as a "thingee," because the story he passed on is pretty damn good. It is, obviously, not something that was tossed off when Wooden died recently, but something that's the result of years of reporting, of being around Wooden (at least every now and then), of deep thinking, and of heart. It focuses on Wooden's devotion to his wife, who died in 1985. The tone of the piece is, I think, just about perfect -- emotional but not fawning.

A sample:

 ... in the middle of the bed, was a bundle of carefully scripted letters, all in the same intricate handwriting.
"Fan mail?" I asked.
"You might say that," he said.
The letters had been written by Wooden to Nell.
They contained humble descriptions of his day, gentle laughs over private jokes, eternal promises of his affection.
They had been written once a month, every month, since 1985.
They had been written after she died.

Left unsaid

This piece was in the NYT mag this weekend.

It's a account of how a business reporter got drawn into the financial crisis. Once you get past the part about him being a reporter making $120,000 a year, there's pretty interesting storytelling here.

I don't want to say too much about it, because it would spoil the story, but a friend and I discussed the story at length Sunday. I'd like to see what you think.

Read the story with an eye toward the bits he weaves in here and there about his wife. Do you think what was obviously left out makes the story more effective? (I am talking about his second wife; the one he bought the house with.)