The problem with my brain is the annoying echo

Whom the gods would destroy, they first give a trophy

 The goal of the “Outsidah” is humorous commentary on life in smalltown New England from the standpoint of a newcomer, which my fellow Ipswich residents tell me I shall forever be.

There are basic truths about writing such a column, certain subjects you should certainly avoid discussing, because they’re inherently boring.

®   The weather? Deadly dull. Anyone can talk about the weather, and everyone does, so why do another 700 words about it?

®   Traffic — this is a yawn waiting to happen. Traffic is a universal experience, everyone already has an opinion about it, nothing new can possibly be said on the topic, so don’t even go there.

®   Local politics? Worse than talking about the weather. Not just deadly dull, but potentially hazardous, because some people take certain issues very seriously, and may have lethal weaponry, or even a Facebook group.

Unfortunately, in 15 years of columns, the Outsidah has mostly commented on three concerns: the weather, traffic, and local politics.

The only other major theme has been wildlife, mostly just references to squirrels squished on outer Linebrook Road.

Curiously, I was recently named #1 Humor Columnist by NENPA (that’s not a prescription-only medication, it’s the New England Newspaper & Press Association).

Yet it’s worth noting that the Outsidah piece they judged worthy of their top honor was about horses and dogs on Crane Beach.

In this way, NENPA signaled their commitment to enforcement of the unwritten taboos: You can bang away at a humor column for 15 years, but to win first prize you have to stop wasting readers’ time on weather, traffic, politics, and squirrels squished on outer Linebrook Road.

There is, however, one way to write an even worse column, and that’s by writing a column about writing columns.

Nothing could be more sleep-inducing to the reading public. You’re nodding off at this very moment. I could charge a fee for hypnotist services.

This, nevertheless, is a column about writing a column.

The basic idea is quite simple: Ever since that magical moment, winning the Oscar of the New England humor columnists’ universe — with all the glitz and glamor and glory that goes with it — I’ve had nothing but writer’s block.

People saw my photo in the paper and suddenly began showering me with congratulations. A deluge of lovely words online. Backslaps at senior pickleball. Fans in such a joyous uproar at Market Basket, I could hardly get through the yogurt section.

All of which has paralyzed me.

When you’ve reached the top, what else is there?

It’s a terrifying question. Herman Melville wrote Moby-Dick and then went pfft. What did Bobby McFerrin write after “Don’t Worry Be Happy”? Rudy Giuliani was Time’s Person of the Year and look at him now.

Outsidah life used to be so easy.

In the old days, when I was a nobody, if I came close to my weekly deadline with no idea for a column, all I had to do was attempt to navigate my Hyundai through Lord’s Square, or stick my head out the window to see how wrong my weather app was, or glance at the latest Select Board minutes.

I wouldn’t even necessarily have to drive all the way to Lord’s Square if I happened to come across a squirrel squished on outer Linebrook Road. A column would just come flowing out.

There’s a special button on my steering wheel; it activates a voice-recording app. When I’m inspired by a column idea while driving, I just press the button and spill it. Week after week, I was downloading a veritable gusher of idea-slush.

Now, nothing. The special button on my steering wheel is dusty. My mind is a blank. It’s a miracle there are words here at all.

I trust in the days ahead, my frozen brain will thaw. To achieve complete healing may take a few mediocre columns, but I’m committed to doing whatever it takes.