Naturally, I am surprised by fan mail, as I have so few fans, and I imagine that most of this mail is being written by my mother under various aliases. My Dad isn't a fan, but he probably provides Mom with the stationery and Bic pens.
Sometimes these fans want to know about my on-going projects, and they are genuinely concerned about my happiness, or whether I am eating enough fresh canteloupe, or have regular bowel movements, or if--because I am a writer--I am also an alcoholic and could benefit from AA. I have no problem receiving deeply personal questions like these . . . as long as my fans don't care about my deeply personal responses and my brutal honesty regarding my black licorice addiction or how I feel about writing $10,000 checks for college.
Writers like me love this honest banter with fans, and every time I meet my mother, I thank her for birthing me and for her willingness to comment favorably on my jacket blurbs. I can always tell when I meet a fan--like at the airport or in a New York subway--as these are the ones who are screaming obscenities at me.
I love my fans. They complete me. I want to thank all five of them. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Most fans, of course, don't know what to make of me. Some fans know me as a pastoral writer. Others see me as a humorist. A few know me as a science fiction writer. Others mystery. And I've had a few complements on my poetry or literarly fiction. One lady recently thanked me for my "God-breathed" devotions. Another guy sent me an email expressing how much he appreciated my insights on cancer support. And yet another thanked me for my satirical work about the European debt crisis.
Which leads me to a question many editors ask: "Who the hell are you?"
I'm still figuring that out. But in the meantime, keeps those cards and letters coming, gang.
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