A couple of years ago, I made a resolution to start writing fan mail to my favorite authors and artists.
Though it may sound selfish, I imagined it as paying into some karmic appreciation fund — some day, I hope to have readers who are sufficiently moved and inspired by my words that they will seek me out and tell me as much. By the same token, don’t I have an obligation to let the people who have inspired me (those who are still living, anyway) know how I have been affected by their work? Wouldn’t any writer be thrilled to hear such a thing? Of course it’s all very well and fulfilling, I’m sure, to hear that you’ve “moved a lot of product” in the past fiscal quarter. But ultimately, I imagine that most writers would value a note of heartfelt appreciation at least as much as a royalty statement.
A nice resolution, and not too difficult — these days, with email addresses posted so prominently on most authors’ websites, nothing could be easier than dashing off a quick little message of thanks.
But then the months came and went, and I think I sent a total of two. Or wait, maybe one? The other might be languishing in my drafts folder. Why was I having so much trouble with what seemed like a simple task?
I don’t know, maybe I overthought it. My first instinct had just been to send notes saying, essentially, “I love your work.” But that seemed so bland and insincere. If I received a note like that, it might bring a smile to my face, but would probably be forgotten by lunchtime. No, I wanted to go deeper — I wanted to tell these authors how fully I understood them and felt understood by them… how deeply I engaged with the project of their writing.
That’s where I ran into trouble. Because… what if I got it wrong? Or rather, not wrong exactly, but what if my understanding of the book was in fact totally different from what the author intended? As legitimate as my interpretation might be, it ran the risk of pissing off the author more than pleasing him. Which was pretty much the opposite of my intention.
So I was torn — send out vapid platitudes in hopes of remaining inoffensive? Or engage with the text in all its problematic glory, and run the risk of incurring the author’s wrath? Or maybe just avoid the trouble by keeping my big mouth shut?
So I went with the third option. But I wonder sometimes what the authors would say. Do authors have stories of “fan mail” which left them more annoyed than flattered? For what it’s worth, if I’m ever in their position, I’d rather hear something than nothing, and I would actually love to hear every odd or idiosyncratic interpretation of my work. But I lack confidence that others feel the same way.




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