Earlier this week, I spent a few days in a lonely cabin on the beach, with lots of time to think and review my "career."

I can now chuckle at a decade when I wrote a weekly newspaper column. I had never had any desire of writing for a newspaper -- especially not for the local rag, which as owned by a national chain -- but the features editor had a way about him. Even so, it took him three pitchers of beer to talk me into it. To my surprise, I was given a totally free hand. I could write about any topic (as long as it dealt with food and wine) at [almost] any length. As a result, my columns ranged in length from about 500 words to more than 5,000 (the record was a 7,500 word epistle). I had almost instant reader rapport -- though there were a few who tried to kill me and one who threatened to shoot me on site.

These good times lasted for about two years, when the features editor quit and was replaced by a corporate animal. Now change was in the air, almost constantly. None of these new editors lasted for more than a few months. Every so often, the editors would attend a corporate conference where they were given guidelines on how to edit. Sound bites became more important than coherent stories. One of this new crop of editors told me quite point blank that she thought readers were stupid, could not understand complicated issues, and had a very limited attention span. She maintained that they could grasp only one concept at a time. I did not agree with her but decided to play along. But the fun was gone, and after another couple of years, I quit. Not because of an editorial argument, but because the advertising department tried to cash in on my popularity by trying to make me write about advertisers.

That was some fifteen years ago, and I have no regrets, especially since I found writing magazine columns and books a lot more rewarding.

Now I am facing yet a new frontier (for me): garden writing. It could get interesting.