To My Not-So-Secret Admirer

I’m not a prominent author. On occasion, a small journal will publish my work. If you’re a twenty-year-old majoring in English, you’ve probably heard of one or two. Some pieces are published in print, and some are splayed over the Internet for anyone to see.

Exactly 107 people follow me on Twitter. I have no idea how Facebook or Instagram functions. But I have figured out how to tweet. For reasons I can’t fathom, 107 random people find me interesting. I write. I send out my stories. Some of them are published in these tiny magazines. It’s a miracle, really.

Though I don’t crave fame, some validation would be nice. My grandchildren, for instance, don’t consider me a writer. To be a real writer, I’d need to have a published collection. Something with my name embossed on the cover. Something you’d buy on a Barnes and Noble shelf.

Every day I sit at my computer, punch the alphabet, let the sentences flow. I’m not young anymore. It feels like a deadline is approaching, like the movie’s ending and we’re waiting for the credits to roll. I write. I publish. I shoot my stories into the air and wonder where they land. Their journey remains a mystery. Piercing the sky. Bouncing between clouds. Zooming like a comet through space.

And then what happens? Here my powers of invention fail. I picture my readers both everywhere and nowhere. Thumbing their phones, scrolling on their computers, leafing through a paperback abandoned on a college stoop. Writing is a shot at immortality, I suppose. Though part of you is gone, another part is embalmed in parchment, frozen on an iPad, embedded in a palm.

One day my toilet overflowed. When I called the receptionist at the plumber’s office, she flew off topic and gushed. You really understand mental illness, she told me on the phone. My bathroom smelled like a septic tank, and I was hoping for a service call. But she kept on talking like we were the closest of friends. I had no idea what story she was referring to. And my experience with psychological and emotional issues is more or less the same as everybody else’s. Some people forget that my stories are imagined. I’m just good at making things up.

Folks who are bored spend a lot of time on the Internet. The nighttime security guard who patrols my townhouse community, for instance. Wow, he once said to me. You’re an author. Like wow. I’ve read a lot of your stuff.

You want to be number 108? I replied.

Without missing a beat, he confessed. I’ve got three novels sitting in my computer, he told me. I’m trying to get them published. Can you help? Whatdya think?

This week, I received fan mail for the first time. I can’t imagine how you found my email address. I suppose that college journals let that information slip. You complimented my stories. You said they were earnest and thought-provoking and topical. Then you urged me to send one your way. You said you were starting a journal and left it at that. Nothing about yourself. No biographical information. No bona fides. Of course, I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be flattered? You said you loved my work.

Then I did what the whole world does and googled. You are young enough to be my grandson. The long hair. The hoodie. And your interests seem more political than literary. In your posts, and there are quite a few, you boast a Rand Paul libertarian bent.

This is a public service announcement: I’m just a little old lady, buddy. A McGovern Democrat who tries to stay out of the fray. I’m not the least bit political. I vote. I recycle. I pat the heads of puppies and pick litter off the street.

I confess. After reading your email, I panicked. You must be fairly desperate to stoop to the likes of me. And desperation is scary. Off-putting. Usually, I’m the person begging to be published, and not the other way around.

Then it occurred to me I could be wrong. Just like the plumber’s receptionist, maybe you saw something in my stories I didn’t. I’ve got seventy years of angst churning inside. And on occasion that angst seeps into my characters. That’s the beauty of fiction! A writer can take every crazy idea that flits through her brain and mash it, smash it, filter it, funnel it, bury it, burn it, or type it fast in all caps. The intent is there but not there. A moment of insight, a stab at the truth, a flash that fades as fast as a closed screen.

Of course, I want readers. Who doesn’t want readers? But while I want to be read, I don’t want to be seen. I write. I send out my stories. Some of them are published in these tiny magazines. And at the end of the day, that’s quite enough.