So the Trice-told Chi Trib story of the woman raped as a 12–year-old by her stepfather, disbelieved by mother and everyone else, ended happily. That is to say, justice was served, and the son of a b-tch got eight years. Trice supplied no more verve to the telling than in part one, which ran yesterday, however. Look, sere writing has its place, but there’s a difference between clean and flat copy. Maddening.
Reader J. agreed, asking if Trice would tell a friend this story “in similar fashion.” She doesn’t think so and blames it on lack of reader-consciousness. “The day of gentle reader, dear reader, kind reader went out with ink wells,” she moans. “It's authorial narcissism. The story's not the thing. The teller is.”
Reader N., on the other hand, made a plea for forbearance. “It was a rare D.T. Trice column I actually finished, much to my surprise.”
For him the story came through. It was the thing. But for differences like that, where would horse races be?