I’ve always loved writing. Back in elementary school (and it was way back), I gobbled up books not only because I loved reading — which I still do even though now it’s listening (to audiobooks) — but also because I enjoyed writing book reports about them. In high school I wrote for and was an editor of our yearbook, and in college, my column in YU’s undergraduate paper was such a formative experience that, although more than 55 years old, its name (“In My Opinion”) is an essential part of my book’s title. And then, after law school (which had lots of writing but none of the fun kind), I continued writing for a variety of Jewish publications for years (see the beginning of my recent “Experience, Expertise … and Elephants”) until I secured this regular, and wonderful, gig at the Standard.

But loving writing doesn’t mean it always comes easily. I often struggle to find just the right word, eliminate the unnecessary verbiage that my law professors and mentors described as “clearing your throat,” and ensure that my sentences and paragraphs say exactly what I want to say clearly and — dare I hope? — even once in a while, elegantly.

I realize, of course, that notwithstanding these struggles, I won’t reach the high bar I strive to touch. This is driven home every time I pick up a book by one of my favorite authors like, leaving out the classics, David McCullough, Anne Fadiman, Ian McEwen, Nora Ephron, Chaim Grade (in translation; oh how I wish I knew Yiddish so I could read him in the original), Anna Quindlen, Benjamin Balint, Margalit Fox (obituaries........

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