When I need to work up my nerve to write a tough column, I try to think of myself as Emma Peel in a black leather catsuit.

Reagan didn't socialize with the press. He spent his evenings with Nancy, watching TV with dinner trays. But he knew that to transcend, you can't condescend.

Military guys are rarely as smart as they think they are, and they've never gotten over the fact that civilians run the military.

I strained to remember where I was or even what I was wearing, touching my green corduroy jeans and staring at the exposed-brick wall. As my paranoia deepened, I became convinced that I had died and no one was telling me.

Journalism, spooked by rumors of its own obsolescence, has stopped believing in itself. Groans of doom alternate with panicked happy talk.

The sounds of silence are a dim recollection now, like mystery, privacy and paying attention to one thing — or one person — at a time.

As a woman, I know that if I write about another woman, it will be perceived as a catfight.