One day in the early 1990s, while working in the newsroom of the San Francisco Examiner, I had a revelation that haunts me to this day. It came while I was scanning the news wire, which printed out on long, continuous rolls, like paper towels, only wider, stronger, and a yellowish tan.

A story about a sociological study caught my eye. It found that people who thought themselves funny usually weren’t. Suddenly, I recalled how a college friend had dubbed me the world’s most generous giver of free advice. Like the self-deluded jokester, until that moment I’d taken it as a statement of grudging admiration.

… there are some people who have something to say, and there are some people who have to say something …

But I learn from my mistakes. I’ve gone on to admit to myself that that no one appreciates the sound of my voice as much as me; to understand that silent is the anagram of listen; and to realize that there’s so much free advice on the internet that this tongue-in-cheek put down isn’t the superlative it used to be.

Yet, I write a blog, which is a forum for dispensing free advice. Why, when the greatest likelihoods are of being ignored, or being considered foolish, or getting myself into trouble? Whatever the cause, one of my father’s favorite utterances suggests that unsolicited verbalization has been a lifelong compulsion.

“Thomas,” he would say, and the use of my given name signaled that something profound was to follow: “There are some people who have something to say, and there are some people who have to say something.”

And my only sadness is that he is no longer here to tell me whether he thinks that I am one, or the other or, most likely, a bit of both.