I Love My Stalkers

Okay, you're not actually stalkers. I use that word because a very nice lady took a shine to the writing here very early on and would leave funny, cheering little notes whenever I posted something new. So she decided that she was my states-distant stalker, and I decided that a straight, same-gender stalker who lived across the country and expressed her obsession with go-get-'em-tiger-type notes was exactly what I'd always wanted.

I can't tell you what it means to me that so many kind, funny people have taken the time to leave their thoughts here. I now know why one of my favorite cartoonists (Stephan Pastis, of Pearls Before Swine fame) took a long time to write back to a flat-out fan letter I sent him. Yes, he's busy, but it's not just that. It's one thing to hope that you're good enough at your art that people will voluntarily sit down and enjoy it; it's another to gain confidence that you have a certain facility; and it's something else altogether to have a total stranger tell you that she thinks what you're doing is fabulous and boy does she hope you keep doing it.

This past day or two have been more stressful than I've ever imagined a day (or two) could be -- and I can imagine a lot. My life decided that homeschooling, homemaking, holidaying, and putting together a magazine wasn't nearly enough to work my emotional muscles to the screaming point. There've been no deaths or disasters, and it's nothing I can discuss in very specific terms, but health and personal affairs decided to shriek for attention. Today's was the kind of morning where I decided that it was important to spend that extra hour in bed, partly because I was more than half-convinced that it was now where I lived and no one was going to get me out of it with anything short of a cannon, and partly because I needed the time to make sure I hadn't missed any ideas on the always-compelling subject of how to make my own suicide look like accidental death, so my family could just be left in misery instead of misery and guilt. I mean no disrespect to anyone who's suffered from the very real upshot of such a subject. That really was where I was living about twelve hours ago.

What got me up -- and I know this is getting maudlin so I'll make it quick -- was the thought of someone who left me not one but three affectionate and completely anonymous notes just the other day. If she's here and liking the magazine, she's probably a homeschooler, which means that she's way busy enough, especially at this time of year. She didn't have to stop by and say "Hey, nice work." She had every excuse not to. But she did, as have a lot of other people.

Here's how stupid I am:  my computer's set up so that I get an email copy of notes that are left on this site. When I get these in my mail, I know for an absolute fact that I'm just getting the electronic equivalent of carbon copies. I can drop by the site, which happens to be mine so no one's going to mess with it, and visit said notes any time I want. My pile o' email, though it's subsiding thanks to recent vigorous macheteing on my part, is still in the high three digits. I need to eject all the ballast I possibly can. And yet I will often hang on to the email copies of the notes I get, just to have them around.

Here's why I don't usually answer the notes. First, it's not obvious to me how I could, or should. I mean, I could post stuff here, but I have no idea what the etiquette of this kind of thing is and for all I know it would look extremely stupid and/or egotistical to do that. And maybe very boring to readers who aren't the ones being addressed. And a lot of the time, the person who left a note doesn't leave email information. I can sometimes get it by doing a little hunting around, but then I'm worried that I'll look like a stalker.

Also, the notes that mean the most to me generally leave me speechless. I sit there and think about how nice that little letter was, and then I think about something clever I could say, and then I remember that I don't have cleverness on tap nearly as often as I wish I did (that's why I'm a writer, where you get to write and delete and stare into space until everything's just how you want it, as opposed to, say, a stand-up comedian, where your wit is constantly taking a pass-or-fail exam); and then I get an email about something weird, or something that needs my attention right away, and I focus on that for a while; and then it's feeding time at this funny farm I call home; and then one of the homeschooling loops I'm on goes into a flurry about something ("my husband just quit his job because his boss reported us to CPS because he doesn't think homeschooling is a good idea" -- yep, that one really happened, and it wasn't even me or anyone I've met and it was weeks ago and I'm still really ticked); and then somehow it's the next day -- sometimes even the day after that! -- and I feel like a doofus. And so I tell myself that at some point I actually made a conscious decision to maintain a lofty silence on the whole subject.

So let me just say right now:  when you leave a message here, I read it and boy, do I appreciate it. It's like opening the door to get the paper and finding a little bundle of marigolds.

Consider this a big love letter back to all the terrific people who really deserve one.