This is a rerun from 2007.
These fragments I have shored against my ruins.
—T.S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”
I’ve always figured that Our Town goes to four kinds of people. Group A throws it directly into the trash. People in Group B look at the ads, thank goodness, but ignore this column. Group C folks might start reading my column, but toss it aside—it’s just not for them. And then there’s my beloved Group D, those who enjoy this column almost every month.
I know Group D exists because of a special folder in my office files. It’s called “Love Notes,” and it holds every nice note or e-mail ever sent to Our Town. Even if it’s just a post-it note, it goes into “Love Notes,” which is getting pleasingly hefty after almost ten years!
Some of the writers compliment our good service. Others remark on our design, or ethics, or the good results from their ad. I treasure the ones from nonprofits that thank us for the volunteers or donations generated by our Community Notes. But my favorites, the ones which I might move to a sparkly pink box on my desk, are the nice words about my columns. I admit it—I’m a fool for these! When people appreciate your writing, it feels as if they really “get” you, as if they’ve seen what you’re made of and embrace it. When they tell you in writing, it’s heaven.
Anyway, I just found out that there’s a fifth type of Our Town reader: one who takes time to read the whole column with an eye for its weaknesses, then takes extra time to phone us and point out my failings in a manner that is, shall we say, less than collegial. There’s only one person in this group so far. Groups A, B and C have the sense to just ignore what they don’t like, thank goodness!
I thought of author Judith Rossner when this recent criticism brought all my insecurities out of hiding. I interviewed her once, long after Looking for Mr. Goodbar had sold six million copies and been turned into a big movie with Diane Keaton. All that success hadn’t soothed the sting she still felt from a nasty review many years earlier.
“You’re never immune,” she said sadly. She was right. Some anonymous person with too much time on his hands called me a hack?! Maybe he’s right! I cried. I obsessed. I tried to take comfort in past writing accomplishments, jobs, awards. Friends and family tried to reassure me. But nothing worked.
Then I remembered it—my Love Notes file. I started reading and almost immediately felt myself sinking into a warm bath of relief. And that’s when the Eliot quote came to me: These fragments I have shored against my ruins. I am SO lucky to have these fragments of evidence that I am valued, to shore me up when I’m down.
I’m running out of room here, so I’ll make my point quickly: Life is hard—shouldn’t we help shore each other up? Wouldn’t it be nice if we helped fill other people’s Love Notes folders? Just a few words will do, a fragment, and I bet he or she will save it forever. A neighbor, an uncle, the UPS man, your first grade teacher…I’d write to you right now, if I knew who you were, my dear Group D!
And when I say thank you for reading Our Town, I really, really mean it.