Alex Trebek's Memoir

I really like Alex Trebek's memoir--and one reason I like it is that it's a bit clumsy. This is endearing. Trebek states, early on, that he isn't a writer, and this admission seems to free him to "speak naturally." You feel you're talking to a friend.

Also, a famous writer has said that a personal essay should "swing for the fences"; you should reach for lessons, for profundity, because if you're not doing that, then you're wasting your reader's time. (Laura Lippman and Colin Jost both need to do some work in this area.)

Trebek isn't afraid to extract lessons from his own life, maybe because he is dying. (Maybe the proximity of death makes him fearless.) The lessons aren't earth-shattering, but it's very moving to read the words of someone in the final stages of pancreatic cancer, someone who has chosen to address you directly:

*Be ten minutes early to all professional events.

*Be vulnerable in public; this requires more chutzpah than being stoic. Letting someone see your struggle is a gift to that watcher--because that watcher then feels less alone.

*We do not "battle" cancer. ("Battle" implies that there is a right and a wrong way to fight the fight, and this seems insulting to cancer patients.)

*Sometimes, a white lie isn't a bad thing.

*"Jeopardy!" can go on forever. The identity of the host doesn't matter so much. (Trebek feels this in his bones--and he points to Drew Carey's reinvention of "The Price Is Right" as a bit of argument-by-analogy.)

Well, I could go on reading these tiny essays for another one hundred pages. Yes, I did cry quietly, with my Alex Trebek memoir, while staring out at my back yard.

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