People throughout the community often ask several questions about what I do and about the practice of the noble craft of journalism (although “noble” isn’t exactly the word some use).

“Where do you get all of your information?” (Attending meetings, tips, staying informed on what’s happening in the community) is the most common.

“Will you print this for me?” (A lot of businesses, school and community groups ask); or, “Do you have to print that?” is what some politicians ask. (The answer usually is, “Of course. You ran, you won, people have the right to know how they’re being represented — live with it.”)

Although, just because you can do something doesn’t necessarily mean you should. And people often ask about news judgment, why something goes in the paper and why something doesn’t.

Surprisingly, at least to me, some also ask about the writing process and where we get our “inspiration.”

The convoluted answer: The news staff sits amid stacks of paper, drinking pots of coffee while debating the merits of a particular story, it’s placement, who to contact and how best to present the information as fairly and honestly as possible.

The simple answer is: from Chuck.

When most people think of a muse, they think of some a majestic seraphim-type character in flowing gowns, a graceful brow with a little hand-wrought wreath on their heads who bestows a little inspiration every now and then.

I suppose if you aspire to artistic endeavors or delusions of grandeur, that’s as fine an image as any. But most people live in the real world, where they have to deal with real problems; and the lofty rhetoric and stylish images only provide so much inspiration if they aren’t supported by a certain amount of substance.

And that’s Chuck: the muse who resembles a gnome. He doesn’t say much: he just sits there, puffing on cigars and wiping ashes off the coffee-stained T-shirt that doesn’t quite cover the protuberance known as his stomach. He looks over your shoulder, only speaking up to say, “Nope, that’s not right.” The worst is when he just laughs — then you know you’re in trouble.

But there’s also magic in Chuck’s smoke and grumblings. And when you get it right he lets you know, usually just by his compliant silence. Chuck’s the voice of the everyday guy.

I point this out because everyone has access to Chuck, or at least their inner Chuck. Community leaders and politicians, from the president down to the local trustee or councilmember, are making speeches with flowery prose and lofty promises; and decisions on some course of action without considering whether their intent will actually materialize into reality.

Most people probably listen to the golden-haired icon on their shoulder and think they are doing the will of the people, forgetting all about Chuck. And that’s when the rest of us have to step up and remind them.

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