There's something special between you and me. We've probably never met, or maybe we have, but there you are and here I am. Maybe you're on your laptop on the salon table of your boat in a foreign country, or maybe you're reading on your phone while sitting on the toilet in your corporate office building.
See that's the interesting thing in our relationship here: I don't really know you that well and to be honest you don't me either. If you've ever met an author or actor outside of their books or off the big screen you might know the feeling: let down city. I ended up in a Navy weapons class for a few months that started at six in the evening and ended at midnight. As a natural result I watched a lot of Days of our Lives. Some of the actors came to a local shopping mall one weekend and although a few of them were cool most were total douchebags. To a large extent writing is like playing a musical instrument in that just because you're good at it doesn't mean anyone necessarily likes you as a person.
So what have we established? That I could be a raging asshole and you are passing the time while getting paid to evacuate your bowels, all the while my writing helps to keep your mind off the guy in the stall next to you. Or maybe I really am a great sailor and all around wonderful chap, and you are a kindred spirit. We're in this together, the two of us, existing on some connected wavelength known only to seafarers.
Or maybe you're an ex girlfriend, colleague, or other interested party. And hell, who doesn't enjoy a nice evening of Internet Stalking here and there.
More realistically you don't hold me in that high, or low, of regard in the first place. I once heard that hating people is a waste of time because half the people you hate don't know how you feel and the other half don't care. Put more bluntly, we generally over think our relevance and impact to others. Our website here has several hundred "likes" on Facebook right now but since when did someone expending 0.00001 calories with a mouse click have anything to do with actual impact on their lives?
It's a sad state of affairs that the genuine affection of a blood and bones person has been reduced, or at least equated, to Facebook's little thumbs up icon.
So here we are. I occasionally write and you occasionally read and perhaps from time to time we wonder about the other. In my most perfect Zen'd out moments I embrace the philosophy of Steven Pressfield and write what I think is worth writing. Whether anyone else finds value in it isn't my concern. My goal is to do the best I can, not try to make other people happy. A therapist that I paid $140 an hour told me one time that I can't make my sense of self be tied to the emotions of others and let me tell you, that particular hour was money well spent.
Dear reader, I don't know if you enjoy everything I type although I do know that I can't meet that standard anyway. I don't even like all the things I write so why in God's name would you? But since we're here in this relationship together you and I, connected like we are, I promise that I will always try to write something that I believe is worth writing. I won't employ gimmicks, I won't make blog entries with lists even though I know you'll be more likely to click on it. If I can't be the writer I want to be I can at least try, and since we're in this together I'm hoping you can meet me in the middle.
As a footnote, this is roughly on the heels of a reader raising objection with some of the content posted on our website. It gave me an opportunity to think about the relationship between writers and readers.