The Lonely Reader
I’ve been writing for a long damn time. Longer than a lot of you have been living. If you count my early scribblings I suppose it’s been about fifty years since my pen first hit the page in any creative sort of way. It can’t be disputed that my early writing was not very good, but for better or worse, that didn’t stop my passion for creating stories. Since I spent much of my childhood in make believe world I suppose it was only natural to take it to the next level in my adult life. But I didn’t sit down this morning to talk about me. I sat down to talk about you.
If you are amongst the chosen few reading my blog this morning, or any of my blogs at any time, or my book reviews and insights, or children’s books and novels, then you might just want to pat yourself on the back for doing something that few people have done. You are in almost uncharted territory.
It’s possible that you should feel a little bit lonely. While I’m sitting here all by myself before the sun has risen this morning I’m pretending that I’m writing this piece for the masses to read. And as you sit somewhere reading my stuff, there’s a good chance that you are the lone reader who will ever look at these words. If you’re not the only reader, I assure you that you are part of an elite and infinitesimal group of people. You are a member of the chosen few. You are like a beautiful sailboat cutting through the waters of the Caribbean Sea. Majestic and beautiful and inspiring and… very much alone. On one hand I suppose it’s a bit sad, but on another it is kind of funny. You’re reading a blog about being the only person who will likely ever read this blog. It’s up to you whether that makes you feel special or foolish.
I’ve taken all the social media steps in order to make sure everyone knows I am here. You know, I’ve done the stuff I’m supposed to do to give thousands of others the opportunity to join your private group. But let us be honest. People who are spending their days on social media are not likely spending their evenings reading whatever it is that I wrote. I suppose I cling to the hope that one day my books and blogs will be discovered, but I also suppose there’s a downside to the whole being discovered thing. It would seem likely if a million people were reading my writings, then there would be a certain percentage that would be critical. Critics seem to be drawn to crowds. At this particular moment, other than The Lonely Reader, nobody thinks my stories suck. In fact, they don’t think about me at all. No critics!
Since I’m quite certain that almost nobody reads almost anything I write, the obvious question to ask me is, why do I continue to write? Here is the most honest answer I can come up with.
I don’t know. I like to write is the best answer I have come up with so far. There’s a little voice inside my head that says, “You should write that down.” So, that’s what I have done for a long time.
So, back to you, The Lonely Reader. I suppose my question to you is why do you read? To be inspired? To become informed? To be entertained? To kill time? All of the above or none of the above? Maybe you don’t know why you read any more than I know why I write.
As for you reading today’s blog, it’s mind boggling that you may very well be the only person who will ever read it. Ever! Imagine that. Seven billion, three hundred million people on the planet, and a complete stranger who you will likely never meet or speak to, wrote two or three pages just for you. One might believe you should feel honored or privileged to be “the one.” On the other hand, after reading my blog you might be thinking, “Are you %@#* kidding me? Over seven billion people on the planet and I had to be “the one” to read this?” That’s the thing with writing (and reading). You just don’t know what’s in the package until you open it. The worst result for me would be that you felt nothing when you read my words. I’d rather the story irritated you more than bored you.
I am the lonely writer and it appears that you are the lonely reader. We’re like a match made in… well, we were made somewhere, but that’s an entirely different story.
Just think, one day I might autograph a book for you because I was the guy who wrote it. And you could autograph a copy for me because you are the person who read it. You could sign it, The Lonely Reader. That would be cool.
I guess I’ll go work on another chapter of my next book. There’s a person out there who is counting on me to finish it so he or she can read it.
Sincerely,
BM Simpson
The Lonely Writer
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