Taking a 'turn' for the Herald home team

I don't want a turn.

It's my turn, but I don't want it. Nope. I would rather someone else take another turn. I'll pass.

I understand the premise of taking a turn, making it all mine and all that, but I would rather pass on this opportunity and let someone more clever than I am write about a wonderful turn of life or pressing topic.

There have been some wonderful turns since I arrived at the Columbia Basin Herald in August. Erin Stuber wrote about the joy of musical movies. David Cole presented a fascinating look at the role of the media. Pam Robel captured the essence of Halloween and let's not forget the exquisite magical musings of Matthew Weaver. How am I going to compete with their turns?

I really don't have much to say. There are a few insignificant topics floating in the back of my mind, but nothing pushes its way to the surface. Not one penetrates the stew of issues clouding my thought process to reach the top and wave a really big, bright flag screaming, "listen to me!" You could say the closest topic to reach the forefront of my mind is doing its best impression of the Titanic, the one sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic, not the film with all of its romance, excitement and adventure.

My mind is a quagmire. I am rooted in numerous subjects. Top of the list, of mental energy spent each day, is absorbing the numerous routines used in creating the Columbia Basin Herald, battling immigration to bring my Canadian wife to Moses Lake, learning a new martial art, desperately seeking time to finish the biography of Sir Walter Raleigh, hunting down haunted cemeteries and schools (see story above), balancing my checkbook, adjusting to living in eastern Washington again, releasing some of the habits learned in Japan, remembering all those journalistic skills accumulated over the last decade and… write a "My Turn."

Spouting my opinion is easy. Just ask me for an opinion, not directly related to an issue the newspaper is currently covering, I will go on until the sun sets and rises again. I tend to let the news speak for itself and find it has little need of my additional input on what it is or how it should be. Facts are just fine for me, the more balanced it is, the better the story. I have just as many opinions as the next person, and just as many insights too. But right now neither is heeding my call for help in taking my turn.

My brain has already betrayed me once. Last week it blocked the entire process of taking a turn from appearing inside my head. It redirected my interest and energy into hunting down the Griffith Cemetery and the White homestead (again, please see the story above). Without much effort, my focus was bounced away from what was the week's priority. My luck saved me. Well, luck and the gracious, talented, wise Pam Robel did. She had taken her turn early allowing me a week's reprieve. I owe her. I owe her big. Trust me on this.

Now, I find there is nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. I'm cornered. The clock is ticking and I can hear ominous footsteps coming up behind me. I sense my editor peering over my shoulder, seeking and hoping I've taken my turn and can fill space on the page. As the sense of dread begins to well up inside, my brain screams like an unhappy cat and rifles through the nuggets of ideas it passed over before. I could write about how people are too lazy to return shopping carts or how wonderful it is to return home to eastern Washington after two years in Japan or the impact of media bias on world events.

It's too late. The bell tolls for me. The sand has run out of the glass. The race is run. Cripes! My time is up.

It's no longer my turn.

Bill Stevenson is the Herald's assistant editor who cleverly worded his way through a column this week without picking a real topic.