Does Anyone Read My Work? by Anthony J. Mohr
Sometimes (okay–all the time) when I’m writing, I wonder who reads my work. A high school crush? A former camp counselor? The old crone of an English teacher who gave me a C? I have no idea. Even though I’ve made it into a few lit mags and have a memoir out in the world, I’ve heard nothing from the formers.
Forty years ago, I walked by a news truck that was parked along a West Los Angeles street. When I stopped to see what they were doing, the reporter asked for my view on some pressing issue of the day. Of course I agreed to say something on camera. I was a lawyer, then, and thought the exposure would land me one or two clients. I answered the question; they broadcast five seconds of my brilliance; and that night, my phone began ringing. At least ten colleagues saw me. So did a future client, who never paid his bill.
For years Hazel, an old friend, struggled to escape from her job at one of those tabloids, the type that runs headlines like “Head Cheerleader Becomes Putin’s Sex Slave.” Hazel yearned to publish a work that would incite debates across the chattering class. It took four years of research and at least thirty drafts, but one of the nation’s most intellectual journals accepted her piece about – if I remember right — the effect of Medieval platitudes on renewable energy policy. The day it hit the web, Hazel never lost sight of her smart phone, waiting to hear from the world.
Her phone chimed once.
It was the wimpy nerd who’d bothered her through high school. She hadn’t been able to shake free of him until graduation. Now, thanks to Hazel’s assiduous efforts, he was back, still trying to cadge a date.
So, I ask: why bother to write? Other than attaboys from close friends to whom I send my stuff, I expect to hear from precisely nobody. That’s fine. I use my imagination – the same imagination I call on to write — in order to envision someone I don’t know opening a link to my story. I visualize that person forwarding the link to her spouse, who at the end blinks back a tear or falls asleep thinking about my stunning last line instead of his kid’s dental bill. I refuse to imagine him deleting my link before he turns out the light.
EVERY OTHER WEEKEND – COMING OF AGE WITH TWO DIFFERENT DADS
Winner of the Firebird Award in the nonfiction category.
