You Write...

From time to time, I get an e-mail inquiring why a reader can’t find my name on any volumes at Barnes & Nobles. After a reasonable time spent composing myself after I fall into a fit of convulsive laughter, I try to explain why, indeed, no such volumes exist. The exercise begins with the best of intentions, my explanation centering on this or that anomaly in my style, the politics of celebrity (or the lack thereof), my inability to attract a reputable agent, etc., etc., and at some point, my patience now ebbing at a rate challenging the speed of light and seeking a merciful end, I blurt out, “…and I just ain’t good enough!”

There… I said it. So, if you’re not an agent with a contract to offer me, you can stop e-mailing me with your thoughts on the subject of publication. I appreciate the thoughts, I really do, and I’m grateful that anyone reads my stuff, so, by all means, continue to let me know whether or not you enjoy reading my work. Hell, I’ll even take any criticisms you’re apt to levy; Lord knows I’m willing to take a look. Of course, I can’t make any guarantees that I’ll employ (or even understand) your suggestions, as my reserve of cranial mush is inclined to arbitrarily accept or reject input at its discretion, exclusive of my wishes. Just know that there is no greater joy for a writer than hearing from a reader who appreciates or connects with his/her work.

Okay, enough. Back to Saturday and another race with sobriety to see who reaches sundown first.