We Get Letters

I get the damndest mail.

One thoughtful lady writes me from my own backyard, to let me know that she has looked in the Sylacauga phone book and cannot find my name, my address or my phone number. She also proclaims, in tones indignant, that she knows "every lawyer in town" and has discovered that "not one of the offices has an attorney named Queenie". This bright intellectual light has, from said researches, deduced that I am either lying about my name, lying about my profession, or that I indeed don't live in Sylacauga at all!

It is my earnest hope that this correspondent has not already gone drip-drip-drip into the gene pool.

Another reader, obviously rapt and enchanted with my mad storytelling skillz, comments, "you are so obviously a bloke." Oh, honey. If you only knew.

Yet another sweet soul writes to tell me, "I LOVE the way you write. Your flow of expression reveals the heart and ideals of an old hippie, the sharp wit and spirit of a jaded comic, and the powerful intellect of a gifted Jewish insurrectionist. Your words flow like melody, evoking vivid images from deep within memory to support connection with what you describe..."

I wrote her back, a nice, long, appreciative letter; I was thrilled with her kindness, taking her words very much to heart...only to find out, later, that she was referring to Velociman's guest posts. Whoops! Sorry, Linda.

Well, shit.

It's been that kind of day.

Posted by Queenie at October 16, 2005 08:16 PM | TrackBack