So Charlie got fan mail. I never get fan mail. Well, actually that’s not exactly true, but nobody’s emailed about a column for months. Yet last week’s piece by my guest columnist garnered a solid trio of results. This upsets me.

I don’t like being ignored. It’s bothersome. More accurately, my deep-seated, well-developed and carefully-honed insecurities require constant attention to keep up to code.

Insecurity is an odd thing. It’s not exactly a valued personal quality, but it does have a cherished place in the canon of human emotion. It’s funny. People like laughing at other people’s insecurities.

A significant proportion of comedy is built around self-depreciation, around holding up your failures and waving them around furiously for the punters to see.

Such self-flagellation is also a staple of the opinion journalism practiced by students. You’re just as likely to read about the problems of dating as you are to find a cutting analysis of the failure of the Democratic Party to exploit the full potential of their newfound base.

Obvious reasons for this revolve around ignorance and the fact that the real world is indescribably dull compared with the mind-blowing excitement that is Life at Stanford.

The problem with switching to social commentary in order to sidestep ignorance is that ignorance is a dogged follower. For example, take me.

I really have no place writing about life. I don’t have much more experience at it than most of my readers (and what there’s been was fairly uneventful). I have no guiding philosophy to help me or faith to give my observations the veneer of credibility. In fact, I have nothing to offer that you couldn’t get from a post-coital chat with a well-educated hooker.

The role of columnists is an odd one in the world of journalism; opinion has little to do with the pursuit of truth and an awful lot to do with its creation.

Now, this sort of thing gives real columnists incredible power: When the likes of Krugman, Dowd or Noonan express an idea it instantly becomes an object of substance, even for those who might disagree with the particular sentiment expressed.

Of course, none of this happens when Sivanandam, Sheridan, Cannizzaro et al. grace you with their thoughts. Mostly this is because our thoughts aren’t that interesting (though if my colleagues are listening: I’m a big fan of your work), but also because most of us commit the cardinal (and for that matter Cardinal) columnist sin: Self-Indulgence.

Writing about oneself is a dangerous thing to do. There is a fine line between illustrating a problem and whining. A fine line between using yourself as an example of a broader point and wallowing in the irrelevant minutiae of your life and your worries.

I am not exceptional. Yet, despite that, I fall into the trap of believing that I am special when I write each week’s Sketch. I not only tell you about my life, I pretend that it’s relevant. (I also seem to use “I” a lot; this is not, I think, something that I should do if I want to ensure that I can maintain that I am the aloof commentator that I like to pretend that I am).

Which brings us nicely to a little puzzle: Why are you reading this?

This column really has nothing to offer to you. In all honesty I write this mostly as a cathartic exercise. It’s sort of like discount therapy: Instead of lying on an analyst’s couch waxing and whining about my life, I get to lie on my couch and do the same thing for free to a larger audience.

Still, maybe the constant clamoring for attention serves a nobler purpose. Perhaps my complaints are illustrative rather than specific. Perchance I am serving a greater need by bitching about my life. But I doubt it.

On the other hand, while banality may be the curse of serious commentary, it is the lifeblood of student journalism. My fellow commentators and I may not be heading for a Pulitzer anytime soon, but hey, at least we’re doing our job.

Email navin@stanford.edu and soothe my insecurities with insincere compliments and gentle flattery. Please.