Henry David Thoreau’s, Waldon Pond was assigned reading in my undergraduate years but I managed to avoid the book.  Not until my 70s when I was recuperating from surgery did  I turn to it and then, only because it was the one volume I could reach without getting out of bed.  I fl

A blog I wrote about publishing memoirs drew different opinions.  One woman said I sounded cynical.  Another said the piece was droll. I tend to vote with the latter opinion, but the difference between the two illustrates a lesson I learned from my journalism teacher in high school.