Fan Mail and Response

Needless to say, my mailbox overflows daily with letters from both fans and critics of my blog entries. While it is uncommon for me to address them publicly, I felt this one warranted a more open response, as this writer's concern may be felt by others of late.

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Dear Ms. Dietrich,

Let me start by saying that I am a HUGE fan of your blog. I have read nearly through the entire thing by starting at the oldest post and reading backward to the most recent. I have read it all, from your exhilarating meeting with Chris Cornell (sorry about that "rabbit ears snafu) to the gut wrenching excerpts from your heretofore unpublished novel, Below Sea Level, which I look forward to reading just because it's your work even though I know the agony it will cause me. I feel like I know you so well though just at a distance, oh the painful distance.

The reason I am writing is the recent lack of activity on your blog. Surely you realize that your fan base has expectations of reading about your life everyday. I can only speak for myself when I say I understand that everyday is too much to ask but it has been nearly ten days since you've updated and I need more. Please provide the "cool beverage" your writing supplies for the terrible "thirst" I have for your life story. You must understand my need is driven by your incredible talent.

Your Sycophant,

D.W.

P.S. I met you once two years ago at Mounds in Sun Prairie, I was behind you in line. I was the guy buying the poop bags do you remember me? We didn't actually talk but I think we shared a glance.

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Dear Mr. D.W. and Readers,

I appreciate your devotion to my compositions and thank you for reading them so assiduously. Though I do not normally respond to personal missives (frankly, time does not permit me to address them on an individual basis) I felt that your feelings may be shared by others and therefore I have taken the liberty of printing your letter, along with my response. I hope this is acceptable to you.

I normally have three requisites for creating new prose: unrelenting quiet, significant stretches of solitude, and a certain degree of melancholy. I have recently had trouble attaining a workable level of each of these, much less all in concordance. Without these ingredients I am baking bread without yeast, cake without flour, brownies without chocolate.

My sweet peace and quiet has taken a beating recently as a result of a nearby neighbor erecting a large new play set and trampoline. Children from all over the neighborhood now flock to the site, and their squeals of delight are only barely concealed by the whirring of my air-conditioner. Needless to say, I find myself frequently praying for rain--a dubious response given my home's proclivity to flooding. Children aside, it is also the season of mowing, weed eating, and tree trimming. None of these has eased my aural suffering.

My solitude has not been seen in weeks, which surprises me more than anyone can imagine. As the weather improves I find myself more and more drawn to outings with my dear niece and her mother, primarily to visit my horses who, of course, deserve all the time I can afford them, as they are frequently neglected by me.

In addition to this, I have recently been reunited with a dear friend from my past with whom I hope to enjoy many a quiet afternoon, sometimes with horses, sometimes without. Other friends have been coming out of the woodwork since my sister convinced me to come out of hiding, as it were, and list myself publicly on that latest time waster, Facebook. Sadly, no agents yet among them.

As for the melancholy, it too has been a stranger of late, though I never see it disappear completely. (Should it do so I am convinced I should disappear right along with it, as it is so much a part of me.) I credit this to my recent acquaintance with a new gentleman friend. Though I have done my best to thwart his bold advances, he has made headway into my heart and thusly I have had more pleasant days than otherwise during the last several months. And as any seasoned writer knows, a miserable writer is a prolific one, while a happy writer is, well, an oxymoron.

The only thing in this writer's favor in terms of increased melancholy--and therefore increased literary output--is the fact that this new-found relationship rests almost entirely upon fate, as distance is a primary factor dictating its success or failure. As a traditional hermit-style writer, I no longer value travel, and this gentleman is many miles away, across the most insurmountable of obstacles known by some as Greater Chicago. Accordingly, we spend many pleasurable hours on the telephone each evening when normally I might be found staring morosely at my computer screen.

The gentleman in question has recently begun applying for positions at numerous teaching institutions, his art being culinary. Sadly, only a fraction of these posts would close the distance between us. Most would not only increase the distance, but also the time between us, as he is admirably ambitious and considering entry into graduate school. If this writer knows one thing, it is the vacuum of time, space, and finance that graduate school creates. It is no small miracle that I escaped intact some years ago, and I have seen it devour greater men than I. For a relationship to survive a grad school enrollment while both parties reside in the same city is no small feat, but to endure it at a distance is all but unheard of. Unfortunately, there is much more to a relationship than the number of free shared cellular minutes.

So lately I tread with a heavy heart, regardless of renewed friendships and my new gentleman friend. One is hard pressed at times like these to believe there is worth in leaving one's comfortable home, much less compose worthwhile new prose.

So let me now beg my readers' indulgence as I navigate this uncharted territory, and know that whatever happens shall certainly become fodder for any new material in the future.

Sincerely,

Nancy Dietrich

P.S. Mr. D.W., I'm afraid I do not remember our "encounter" at Mounds. While it is true I was a frequent patron of this establishment at the time you mention, of late I have found it necessary to send an aide for such errands due to time constraints. Perhaps we shall be fortunate enough to meet at a future book signing.


Lesson of the day: Be careful what you ask for.