Allow me, please, a point of personal privilege.
Folks keep telling me how easy Donald Trump has made my job. For four years, I’ve had these discussions where we ruminate on the singular awfulness of that man and then the other person says, by way of consolation, “At least you never have to worry about finding something to write about.”
I wish it were that simple.
As a columnist, I’ve always tried to mix things up, move week to week from righteous outrage to snarky sarcasm to deadline poetry to stark analysis to the occasional oddball humor.
Way back in the day — pre-2016, that is — I thought I did a decent job of that. Of course, back then, the presidency was not a constant source of dyspepsia. Rather, it was something you could safely ignore for days on end.
Yes, it sometimes produced moments of high drama (and low comedy) that demanded your attention, but for long stretches, you could get away without thinking or — more to my point — without writing about it.