Letter to my Audience
Dear Audience,
So,I know what you are thinking. No, really, I do. You've heard it from me before, the promise of a weblog, a short story, a commentary, a review, or at least a lengthy poem. This I promised you when I started who knows how many blogs. l said these promises as if I were giving you tokens of love.
You have to understand though that I was infatuated with you. I had seen other bloggers post material which was posted and reposted over and over again. l saw how those bloggers were beloved by their audience. It was in their comment section. They had a relationship built on mutual respect and honesty. The blogger would bare his soul to his audience, and they in turn would love him for it.
I have to confess. It engendered jealously in me. I would watch from afar as the blogger doted upon his gentle and childlike audience, taking their hand in his and guiding them through the travails of the day, imparting wisdom in small doses. I saw how the blogger made them smile, made them feel special. It was like he sent roses every day, or left small poems or love notes underneath the pillow of his readers.
And his readers, they ate it all up, every word. Even though those around could see how sickening sweet it all was. We all complained out loud, but under our breaths we were sad because we wished we had that deep connection, that bond, with our own set of readers.
And so I promised you something of the like. But where the other blogger bought bright bunches of roses, l gave you daisies out of the front yard. But to be fair, a professional blogger has a lot more resources than me. And I know that the nuggets of truths were raw and unrefined, almost, but not quite second hand. I know it made you feel like you were an afterthought. You were not on the top of my priority list.
To be honest, there were nights that I was too tired to talk to you. I just wanted to come home and rest and not have to tell you what was on my mind or what happened that day. I didn't want to have to tell you I didn't read that book I promised I would tell you about.
Some days you feel witty. Some days you don't feel anything at all. There is a hole where your mind should be. It didn't mean I didn't love you, only that I was exhausted.
And you have to be fair. You were hardly there for me either. I would make an effort, and all I got from you was silence. and in the end I began wondering if the relationship was worth it anymore, whether or not l loved you, or loved being in love with you.
Last week, I visited the pieces l produced for you. It brought back excellent memories. And I have to admit, although not gems, there is so much potential in them. They each have intelligence and wit and compassion and life. Even if you are not willing to see them, l am still willing to own them.
You are good for me, my audience, for I feel like I'm a better person when I am with you. And so, I can't promise to be perfect, but I'm willing to try again if you are.
Sincerely,
Michael S. Parson
So,I know what you are thinking. No, really, I do. You've heard it from me before, the promise of a weblog, a short story, a commentary, a review, or at least a lengthy poem. This I promised you when I started who knows how many blogs. l said these promises as if I were giving you tokens of love.
You have to understand though that I was infatuated with you. I had seen other bloggers post material which was posted and reposted over and over again. l saw how those bloggers were beloved by their audience. It was in their comment section. They had a relationship built on mutual respect and honesty. The blogger would bare his soul to his audience, and they in turn would love him for it.
I have to confess. It engendered jealously in me. I would watch from afar as the blogger doted upon his gentle and childlike audience, taking their hand in his and guiding them through the travails of the day, imparting wisdom in small doses. I saw how the blogger made them smile, made them feel special. It was like he sent roses every day, or left small poems or love notes underneath the pillow of his readers.
And his readers, they ate it all up, every word. Even though those around could see how sickening sweet it all was. We all complained out loud, but under our breaths we were sad because we wished we had that deep connection, that bond, with our own set of readers.
And so I promised you something of the like. But where the other blogger bought bright bunches of roses, l gave you daisies out of the front yard. But to be fair, a professional blogger has a lot more resources than me. And I know that the nuggets of truths were raw and unrefined, almost, but not quite second hand. I know it made you feel like you were an afterthought. You were not on the top of my priority list.
To be honest, there were nights that I was too tired to talk to you. I just wanted to come home and rest and not have to tell you what was on my mind or what happened that day. I didn't want to have to tell you I didn't read that book I promised I would tell you about.
Some days you feel witty. Some days you don't feel anything at all. There is a hole where your mind should be. It didn't mean I didn't love you, only that I was exhausted.
And you have to be fair. You were hardly there for me either. I would make an effort, and all I got from you was silence. and in the end I began wondering if the relationship was worth it anymore, whether or not l loved you, or loved being in love with you.
Last week, I visited the pieces l produced for you. It brought back excellent memories. And I have to admit, although not gems, there is so much potential in them. They each have intelligence and wit and compassion and life. Even if you are not willing to see them, l am still willing to own them.
You are good for me, my audience, for I feel like I'm a better person when I am with you. And so, I can't promise to be perfect, but I'm willing to try again if you are.
Sincerely,
Michael S. Parson
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