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First published January 1, 2023
The columnist is nobody particularly special except by virtue of their position, possesses no specialized professional or educational training, is not a subject-matter expert, and may hold no personal charm for the individual reader. The columnist is simply in the column, standing by and prepared to offer a best guess, with no real lasting authority to worry either letter writer or letter reader.
The letter readers I think I understood a little better, having been one myself for so many years during my commute, slow afternoons in the office, or particularly sleepless nights. It's something akin to the pleasure found in the general genre of "self-help" inasmuch as it offers a project of relentless self-inspection and the hope of endless potential improvement— that is to say, the promise of constant forward momentum at exactly the moment when one feels most confounded uselessly or ruminative — yet without the requisite personal buy-in of a self-help book or seminar or what have you, and in much smaller, more manageable doses. There is also the quiet, private gratification of gawking at someone else's problems without having to commit a vulgarity like eavesdropping or going through their mail. Putting one's oar in is a national pastime, and advice columns provide as healthy an outlet for that shared impulse as any. At least I'm not the only one with this problem can feel just as good as At least I don't have her problems, and the syndicated advice column offers both in spades.