Call Me

Monday was an interesting mix of phone calls.  One caller, for example, had been trying to reach me for some time in regard to an article I wrote in YouthWorker Journal back in March, and another fellow wanted to talk to me about a book project.

Both seemed amazed by the fact that I actually took their phone calls and spoke to them for some time.  I suppose they expected me to be "too busy" to be bothered by mundane questions about writing.  And, since I don't have a personal secretary or a voicemail message that says, "I'm sorry, but I am currently writing very important material and cannot take your call" . . . they were taken aback when I actually answered.

Lord knows I've been overjoyed myself when I have called New York, or Chicago, or even Loveland, Colorado and reached an editor who was willing to take my calls in between bites of liverwurst sandwich.  I love it when an editor asks, "And what can I do for you today, Mr. Alleycat?"

Editors should take more calls.  Guys like me need the constant affirmation of someone who cares, especially since my wife doesn't provide this nurture.  I'd love to be able to call an editor on, say, a Tuesday afternoon and rap for a bit about an upcoming magazine theme, or a topical essay, or to recite a poem.  I'd love it if an editor said, "Hey, it's great to hear from you.  Send me some more of your crap!"

That's why I take phone calls. I can't stand the thought of some dude dialing mercilessly in the rain, getting shocked by lightening, hoping against hope that he might reach a living person.

Of course, I could be dead by then.  In which case these people would have to call me wife.  She'd put them straight through to voice mail.