A Piece of Junk Mail Reminded Me of This Lesson

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I got one of those letters yesterday.

“Dear Resident.”

Yes, me — “resident.”

It reminded me of the time I got a response from a publisher which began:

“Dear author.”

Or the [First.Name] fields I get from marketing emails.

“Hey Todd!” they say.

Can I be honest with you?

I started writing for the recognition. My parents gave me too much attention, I guess.

“When I have 1,000 followers, then I’ll be satisfied.”

“Well, maybe just 1,000 more will do the trick.”

“10,000 really isn’t that many people.”

It wasn’t enough, for the longest time, that one person read my work. One person took moments out of their precious life they will never get back and cared enough to spend time with my work. One person commented.

When I made my first guest post — I was excited.

“Here come a flood of new readers,” I thought.

I was wrong. I think. I actually can’t remember. Who knows how many people came over from that guest post to my site. Here’s what I do know:

The blog owner and I stayed in contact.

Then we found more we had in common.

Now, he is probably my best friend in the world.

A relationship. Just one.

He will be sad at my funeral. In a twisted sort of way, that makes me happy. If I live how I mean to, he will be joined by maybe 14 other sad people, as opposed to 1,400 indifferent ones.

Somewhere in the midst of the metrics and messages, in the fog of followers and fake friends we forget — people.

Today, I am writing to one person.

Is it you?

Note — If it is you I’m writing to, I would love to hear from you. No tricks, just tell me your story. todd@toddbrison.com

Much love as always.

— Todd B

Written by

An optimist who writes. www.toddbrison.com/infinite-ideas

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