That week I got unexpected complimentary mail from around the country. It was really weird and it humbled me and made me think a lot about being so public with my personal life. I didn't come to any conclusions: I just thought about it. Paul Tough suggested I write about THAT. But then he went on vacation so I don't know if he's gonna publish it. So I am going to publish it. Here it is:

Dear Paul,

In my short life, I wonder how many women I've told they were beautiful? I never lied, even once: but I'll bet I have said "you're beautiful" more times than I've had occasion to speak my own name out loud.

All of those women seemed used to the compliment. But I had a really bad reaction the one time it was turned on me.

Months ago, I asked out this girl who had bright red hair like I used to have when I was a little kid. She had such an over-abundance of freckles that she was asked about them constantly and ended up embarrassed of them; which made me sad.

Anyway, when I picked her up at her house for our date, she slid into my truck, stopped, smiled and told me I was beautiful. It scared me and I had nothing to say.

I had always wished people would think I was beautiful, but I never expected to hear it. I definitely rely on my personality. I was so confused by her compliment that I barely talked for the rest of the evening. I blew it with her actually, because my personality stalled out as I obsessed over her saying that.

Something similar happened when you published my letter last week. Along with the increased hits to my journal, I received a letter from one of my favorite authors, whom I'd once interviewed for The Times. That was flattering. I also received correspondence from people I hadn't talked to in forever, as well as some other, random letters of praise from strangers around the country.

While I am usually loud and boisterous and abrasive in real time life, the letters humbled me to near silence, for days. I've been quietly presiding over intense internal discussions regarding the letters of praise I received. It's amazing how caught up I get thinking about myself.

Sometimes, the pressure and momentum from my internal dialog forces the discussions out my mouth and I end up talking to myself out loud. When I notice someone noticing me, I pretend I'm singing. Or better; rapping (hip-hop is a great public alibi for talking to yourself). But I think it's normal to talk (or rap) to yourself when you've got a lot on your mind. I don't trust anyone who says they never talk to themselves.

One lady actually wrote, "The honesty in your writing sucks the breath right out of my lungs." I won't go back to being myself until I pick that apart so thoroughly that it becomes a flat, boring topic of thought. I am on a speaking strike until I understand how someone could feel that way about something I did.

Anyway, my new girlfriend, who I've only known a month, who only knows and loves me as a 'living plea for attention', thinks something's wrong. She's thinks my quiet has something to do with her. She doesn't know me well enough to suspect I'm obsessing over the compliments and silently wondering whether they were right…or as wrong as the red-haired girl who told me I was beautiful.

But I can't explain that to my new girlfriend. How unhealthy would I seem to be writing about myself, then have you publish it, then sitting around pondering and talking about how it effects me? Even though she said the other day, "I think it's cute that you're self-obsessed" (She's hard not to love), I can't let her peep the extent. Not yet.

After she brought my silence to my attention, I started obsessing over THAT; wondering if my silence was evidence that I am humble, or whether I had just calmed from self-satisfaction. Maybe I finally got what I wanted, or evidence of its eminence, and it relieved my desire to cry out publicly. That's a creepy possibility. I hope I'm not self satisfied: I once read somewhere that it's wrong to be self-satisfied.

The day my letter ran on your site, I was compiling the weekly Religion Calendar at work. As I composed a blurb about a church cookout, as I typed the phrase, "all the fixins," the phone rang at my desk. The lady on the other end was a reporter for The Kansas City Star and she wanted to ask me about my letter and your website. She loved them both, she said.

"But why would you write something so personal?" She asked. And I had no motherfucking idea. It never seemed like a big deal. Confession is just natural for some people, in that it doesn't feel like confession.

I recently experienced some romantic trauma that would have been in bad taste to write of on my site, and my insides itched because I wanted to write about it so badly, but knew I shouldn't. And what the fuck does that say about me?

My friend Karolina, told me it is healthy urge. She has a Master's Degree in Psychology so I pretend to myself that I believe her, because it makes me feel better to sometimes believe that I'm normal.

But I think she's just protecting me: I don't believe she's telling the truth. The ex-girlfriend I wrote about in my last OPEN LETTER, when found she out about the piece, she promised she would never speak to me again. How healthy my exhibitionism it be: even translated vaguely as art?

I must not really care because I have never doubted whether I would continue what I'm doing as a writer. I get temporarily upset about the mild havoc it reeks on my life, but just keep on going. The inconvenience to my life doesn't make me stop. It only make me question the value of honesty?

Reading back on this letter, checking mistakes, perfecting thoughts, wondering whether or not you will possibly publish it; I realize I could have summed all this self-conscious psychobabble up by saying: it seems I would sooner bring the worth of honesty into question, than except that I might be doing something right or good.

That's a powerful self-doubt. And it's so fun to think about that I almost hope it never goes away.

i & i,
COMMONPLACE