Up late, with lungs on fire, so Im reading, watching Netflix, and checking email. Since I posted my essay A Force of Nature in addition to the many, many positive and encouraging comments on fb, I have also received dozens of emails and private messages. Most offered kindness, love, and support; some detailed the writers own experiences either directly or indirectly with suicidal thoughts and/or attempts; and some were simply expressions of affection, for which I am truly grateful. Every one of those emails and messages thanked me for the essay except for two, which I just read. I responded to one of them, and thought about trashing the other. The first, which I nearly got rid of, simply said Ive read your books. You were right to want to kill yourself. I was shocked, then briefly bothered, then merely sad. That person is in worse shape than Ive ever been to express something so awful to a stranger. The second was from a teenage girl, who said I was her favorite author, and she hated me for writing that essay. She had been contemplating suicide, and then she read my essay, and got upset that somehow, shed be disappointing me if I ever found out she loved my books and killed herself. I responded, and she wrote back immediately. I made her go wake her parents, then traded notes with her dad. They knew shed been in trouble, but not how bad. Theyre getting her more help now - but I got her to make me a promise: she cant consider suicide while Im still writing books. She loved the download I offered at Christmas of the beginning of a new Imaginarium Geographica novella, and lamented that there wasnt more. I told her there would be - but only if she promised shed be around to read it. She did. Her parents thanked me for paying attention, and are taking her to a hospital right now, under the supervision of a doctor who already knows whats going on with her. That whole exchange had my heart rate up so high that before I could stop myself, I replied to the other email. I wrote that I was sorry they didnt like my books, but since I wasnt planning on doing myself in, Id probably be writing more, and I hoped they simply skipped over them and read some nice Brandon Sanderson or Pablo Neruda books instead. Then I closed the email by saying that if they ever needed to talk about anything other than how crappy my books were, that Id be willing to listen, and they were welcome to write me anytime. Ten minutes ago, I got back the most contrite, apologetic response I think Ive ever read. Im not entirely clear on the circumstances, but the writer of those emails had apparently lost a scholarship, or a grant, or something and was about to get kicked out of school. He had not read ANY of my books. But he read all the essays on my website, including the last one. And he apologized profusely for lashing out - because he was hoping to see someone others looked up to crash and burn. And I didnt. And that fact shattered his justification for giving in himself, and all he could think to do was take a shot at me in the worst way he could think of, so that when I lashed back at him, he could be rightfully sure that I was really shallow and petty and more damaged than I appeared to be. I emailed him a copy of DRAWING OUT THE DRAGONS, told him to get some sleep, then read the book, and get back to me if he needed anything. He just wrote back and said he already read the prologue and loved it, and apologized again, and thanked me. Its been - holy CRAP - only about forty minutes since I checked my email. Im poured into my couch, and my lungs hurt, and my head is spinning, and theres no way Im going to freaking sleep now for a couple of hours at least, so Im going to have some Corn Chex and watch tv. Be good to each other. I honestly cant think of anything else to say.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Feb 2014 07:09:34 +0000
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