I have read, and heard, that writing is a lonely occupation, but my experience has been the opposite.
I heard from someone who bought my book on Zen, Kill Your Self
, the day his father died. “It really helped,” he said.
Someone else told me he read some of the poems in Traffic and Murder
out loud to his wife in a hospital waiting room as he prepared to have surgery.
A response I could not have anticipated… A man wrote to me:
I am writing to express my deep appreciation for your book The Wrong Thing, which I happened upon en route to the park with my daughter. It was in a free box at the base of the stoop of my apartment. The flow of your writing style and the imagery contained therein resulted in my inability to put the book down. I identified somewhat with the Kid insofar as I too was rather unloved as a child, got into trouble with the law to some degree, and have been searching for love, which I have found on occasion. I loved how you brought out the Kid’s underlying nature, that he loved to cook for people, especially Vanjii, cared for Catboy, and loved to read and watch the news, all of which could have been nurtured had he loving parents… perhaps. At any rate, the end of the book powerfully overwhelmed me, and all I could do was to let the tears fall. I have a friend, a dear friend, that just barely avoided arrest, having been involved with some dicey characters. She too had a very rough childhood. I called her to tell her that I love her. I believe that if one knows that someone truly loves them, they will more likely than not choose their actions with more care and deliberation. Your book reminded me how powerful love is; for this I thank you.