. . . and not cut out to be, I don’t think.
So here’s when you know you aren’t famous: It’s when you start getting fan emails and tweets and you have to read every single one to your wife. Twice. It’s when you’re geeking out more from receiving the email than your “fan” probably is from getting a reply.
This week, I had a flurry fans reach out to tell me how much they love my books. It was surreal. In one, the writer wonders aloud if I’m even the one who reads my email (I’m framing this one). And if so, if I manage to get through them all (all three of them). And if so, if it annoys me to be flooded with compliments on my writing (as if). And of course, that I’m probably too busy to write back to them.
Too busy? I’ve been waiting for these emails for three years! I’m so un-busy I have to read the damn things three more times (and still plan on printing all these out for my new scrap-booking hobby. That I plan to take up. Soonish. Probably.)
Of course I write back. I’m as enamored with the idea of having a fan or two as these fine readers are to reach out to a silly little writer such as myself. And here’s where it gets interesting and how I know that I’m still uncomfortable with my E-list celebrity-hood: When I write back, I’m probably more sad to not hear from them again than they would have been had I not replied!
Yeah, that’s where I am right now. Just slightly more pathetic than I was yesterday. And really digging every minute of it.
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