taurusingemini posted: " Noting and knowing what you wrote, that got printed, touched a reader's heart, that was, enough for you, as a writer! Translated… As a person who works with words, I'd been writing, for decades to date, and, I'd been, submitting my articles to t"
Noting and knowing what you wrote, that got printed, touched a reader's heart, that was, enough for you, as a writer! Translated…
As a person who works with words, I'd been writing, for decades to date, and, I'd been, submitting my articles to the papers for over a quarter of a century to date. Like the sediments accumulated in the riverbanks, left behind, the pages of my, drafting papers too, and I'd recalled what a writer once said to me, she didn't know where her readers are.
It's also these couple of years, I'd met some new friends on FB, they'd read my book, I can see what they looked like too, knew the goings on of their lives, but, through the responses forwarded to me from the papers by my readers, there were, only, two. (both were sent to me by the editor of the Family subsection) One was an email, the other, a handwritten letter, with the postage stamps on the envelope, passing through the back counters of a post office, separated, along with the mail carrier's sweat, and finally, arrived, at the editor's office.
What was odd was, included, was a pack of black beans, and Mexican primrose-willow, for my cats. The woman was Ms. Liu, at a time in her life, she'd read my articles which I'd written on my cats, knew that my cats started urinating blood out, recalled how her own old cat once had kidney disease too, and from someone else, she learned that drinking the water from black beans and Mexican primrose-willow can help that it could heal, and it actually, did, for her cat, and ever since, she'd, tried helping the cat owners she'd come across with such a problem.
In her letter, not only did she introduced the origins, the sources of the herbs, and described in close detail how the items should be cooked, how to keep it, how to feed it to my cat. The words were so genuine, as I read, I saw her heart of, compassion, leapt onto the pages, alive, and warm.
But unfortunate, I was living in the U.S. then, and got the article printed out on the papers after my cat had died, and so, I'd, not made used of that pack of remedies. The editor of the subsection of the papers sent a photo of that package of medication to me, asked me how I wanted to reply back? I'd thought for a night, saw that there was a phone number listed, I'd decided to call to say thanks, and, if the individual refused to take my call for any reason, then, I can only, write my thank-you note to the editor of the paper's subsection, and have him pass it along.
like, this???
photo from online
Ring~~~!, the following day, I'd gotten the phone going, then, about to talk to a strange reader, I'd felt, a bit, nervous. The call was, picked up, "hello!", it was a woman, with a full-volume of voice, I'd quickly stated my name, and told her why I'd called, and, worried she might thought that I was a scam artist. And immediately, she'd, believed me, and, I'd, asked her permissions to allow the editor to give the remedies to someone else in need, which she'd, gladly, agreed. An overseas call, a short conversation, and yet, the balloons of goodwill, started, soaring high, underneath, that sunny sky then.
This time, I'd known since I was younger, that I was going to, be a person who makes a living off of my words, and finally, I'd, become, just that too. with the blood of a word cooker, word lover inside of my veins. And although, I'd become stagnant, and caught dead, in the solitude of the literary, but quickly enough I'd discovered, that so long as I can still breathe, my feelings are still, flowing, the words shall, never die in me. As for the readers, I'd come to believe, that the readers are, quiet, and, maybe, they're, outside of the realms of the kudos I'd received. Just as I'm also, a silent, unknown reader, to another's, work too.
The internet is a brand new world within the world, a poem, an essay, a novel, met and mingled in the vast oceans of various medium, sinking, floating, drowning, dying, or, stand out among the rest. Whether or not I'm noted, I know, that the only thing staying with me, would be, the words.
Then, I shall, keep on, writing then. Yeah, the final line of my favorite novel stated it that way: writing, the journey, continues on.
And so, this is through the interactions with your readers, and knowing, how what you wrote gained a response, from that, certain someone else, you KNOW that your writings had, had an affect in someone else's life, made her/him, response, and it didn't matter if you're an acclaimed author, with the books published or not, you'd, become, fulfilled, knowing, that what you wrote had, had an effect, on someone else's, life.
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