Writing heads - journalists who appear on television - Column

WRITERLY soul-searching has struck the Washington Post. Last month they had a huge Style piece called "Thinking Out Loud" in which print journalists debated the morality of going on television and hitting the lecture circuit.

Crossfire's Michael Kinsely, justifying his decision to abandon writing for screaming, reflected that the essay is no longer "the real world" because "people make up their minds watching TV." And besides, "I like the fame and fortune." As for lecturing, "I didn't do it for years, but it became more socially acceptable. Then I thought, no one seems to think there's anything wrong with this ... It's amazingly lucrative."

Time's Margaret Carlson rues having to "skim the surface" on Capital Gang, where the "nuances" of her written work are not welcome. "I want to talk in paragraphs," she sighs, but what's a girl to do when being on the Gang Show has upped her speaking fee to $10,000?

Syndicated columnist Chris Matthews, who is on TV so often that millions of channel surfers think something is wrong with their remotes, made forty speeches last year. "Three speeches match your syndicated column income," he explained.

To Fred Barnes, having less time for "real journalism" is "very frustrating," but playing Freddie the Beadle on The McLaughlin Group has its consolations: "You have a certain visibility and get your calls returned." And its compensations: "Magazine articles don't generate speech requests." Barnes, whose speaking fee is about $5,000, gives six to eight speeches a month and thinks anyone who disapproves of this racket is simply jealous. "You only hear 'Aren't you degrading yourself' from other people in journalism, who aren't on shows," said he jauntily.

Oh, really? Before I saw the light I toured three books; I was interviewed on ABC by Barbara Howar and CNN by Marilyn Ringo, did Barry Farber's radio show with Martha Mitchell, and appeared as the mystery guest on To Tell the Truth. I still get speech requests, most recently a $5,000 offer from the University of Tennessee that I turned down. Once in a while a TV offer dribbles in because TV people still can't believe that any writer would say no, but I always say no because I refuse to be a Writing Head.

The distinction between Talking Heads and Writing Heads may not exist, but it ought to. The former are primarily television personalities who do no harm because television is their natural milieu. But the latter, by laboring in the wrong vineyard, risk spoiling precious grapes.

A Writing Head is a writer who encourages people to listen rather than read, and thus contributes to the destruction of his own metier. The warning signs of this unforgivable sin are evident in Chris Matthews's description of his new show, inexplicably named In Depth: "I don't spend any time thinking about it before I get here," he confesses. "If anything comes into my head, I basically can go with it. It's first draft."

That sounds like a workshop in the Theodore Dreiser Sentence: "The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take place at the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy than was at first anticipated."

Knowing what talking constantly on television does to the syntax of politicians, one has no reason to suppose that the same thing can't happen to the syntax of writers who talk constantly on television. It's happening to some Writing Heads already, and it produces a sensation that every Fiftiesera woman will recognize: Trying to read their prose is like trying to dance with the man who took $10,000 worth of Arthur Murray lessons and still can't lead.

The writer's ear is sharpened by isolation and solitude, not by a little electronic plug carrying the disembodied voice of a producer counting off the seconds to commercial break. Heard often enough, the countdown will stay with the Writing Head when he sits down to his word processor, until the leisurely habit of polishing his prose deserts him. No longer will he heed Boileau's injunction, "Make haste slowly." No longer will he take the time to weigh the difference between the sturdy traction of "I've got" and the smooth glide of "I have" and decide which one his sentence needs. Alone in his atelier but with his mind still back at the sound stage, he acquires the habit of writing like someone who is trying to finish a thought before Eleanor Clift shrieks or John McLaughlin roars "Mor-TUN!"

FAME and money aside, I suspect that the lure of Writing Headdom is tied up with America's desperate quest for "well-roundedness" and our concomitant fear of its antithesis, the one-track mind. Intense concentration looks a lot like loneliness, so we deliberately scatter our shot to prove how well-adjusted we are. Our ideal is the straight-A student who is also a class leader and an "all-round athlete." Aware that intellectual triumphs alone would mark him as "weird," he hurls himself into extracurricular activities so no one will suspect him of studying too hard. When writers indulge this national tic, "extracurricular activities" translates into TV and lecture gigs.