Over the past two weeks I have received a fair amount of correspondence from people who have read something I have written (why they read my writing, I'll never know). For example, I received a nice letter from a lady in New York, NY who read a column I had written recently. She actually wrote of lovely things, flowery accolades that filled my brain with endorphins and made me feel rather good about myself. She lifted me out of the miry clay.
And a fair number of people have emailed or written to me saying they read a reflection I had written last month for The Upper Room devotional. How they noted my name in that tiny print is a miracle in itself.
And I also received an email from a friend in California who noted that my newest book was available on Amazon.com. How did you get on Amazon? she wanted to know. I didn't have the heart to tell her than everyone is on Amazon.com.
Oddly enough, I actually feel a bit embarrassed when people tell me that they have read something I have written, or they tell me they enjoyed one of my books. I don't know why I feel this way. But I always have.
Perhaps it goes back to my adolescence, when I got my start by writing on the bathroom stalls at the high school. All of my friends knew my work well (I was a cult hero). But I had to hide my identity from the administration. In many ways, I still feel like I'm in hiding. I'm not comfortable with success, and I always worry about what might happen if my old high school principal or my English teachers actually read my work. "That idiot!" they'd say. "How does he have the audacity to show his face in public? This stuff belongs on bathroom walls!"
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