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There is some irony to the fact that next week I'll be selling, at auction, a group of letters written to me by a legendary and deeply admired writer, a central and recurring theme of which has to do with a writer's relationship with readers. In his very first letter to me, and again and again, in the letters that followed, J.D. Salinger warned me about the dangers of letters from strangers -- their "frightening power" to distract, derail, influence a writer unduly, or cause him to lose his nerve. He told me that people who wrote to me would exploit me, and that I must guard myself against listening to their voices.
Of all the letters I've received over my nearly thirty years as a writer, none ever carried the power or destructive force, in my life -- joy, too, no question -- equal to what I experienced from his words to me. In the decades since that episode, I have probably received a few thousand letters from readers -- strangers, I guess you'd call them, though many became friends, and even the ones I never heard from again made a lasting contribution to my life, and to my work. For eight years, when I was married and raising small children, living in a little farmhouse at the end of a dirt road, five miles outside of a very small New Hampshire town, I wrote a newspaper column about my experiences raising children and muddling along with the struggles of family life. Every day, I'd walk to our red mail box at the end of the road -- often with a baby on my back, and another trudging alongside me. There was usually an envelope in the box, more often than not from someplace like St. Petersburg, Florida or Portland, Oregon, where I'd never been. When I got back, and put my children to bed, or set them up with magic markers and glue, I'd fix myself a cup of coffee and open that letter. And there would be this voice, speaking to me about her own life, her own struggles. And I would feel less alone. Same thing she was telling me my words did, for her. There are so many different reasons why people write. For me, central among them -- in my life as a nonfiction writer, at least -- has been the desire to convey to some man or woman or teenager out there the feeling that he or she is not alone, and that the pain and struggles she experiences, that may seem shameful, unmentionable, and proof of unforgiveable failures, are only proof of her humanness. I consider myself deeply fortunate to have had the opportunity, over the years, to tell the ongoing story of my experiences. I see that story as valuable, not because my own life is more fascinating than anybody else's, but because in so many ways, it is other people's story too -- only they may not be able, or free, to tell it. The letters that have moved me most, about my new book, At Home in the World -- and there so many of them -- never focus on the fame or celebrity of J.D. Salinger. Many never mention Salinger. They say, "this happened to me, too. I also came from an alcoholic family. I thought I was the only one who ever felt the way you describe..." When I read those words, the clamor of my many critics, accusing me of kiss and tell sensationalism, fade away. I prefer to think of myself as a live-and-tell writer. And the reason I tell is always the same: so I can understand better, make sense of my experiences, learn the lessons I need, to do better, and forgive -- not only others, but most of all my own deeply flawed self. When I started this discussion group almost two years ago -- with the help of our matchless designer, Joe Rosen -- the plan was to create a space where people could come to talk about their lives with other intelligent, thoughtful people in an atmosphere of safety and supportiveness. This was never meant to be a place where we would talk about me, except as one of many members of a rich and diverse community, and to the degree that the discussion has focused on myself, I want to express my deep regret,and my hope that with the imminent sale of my letters from Salinger, the topic can be laid to rest here, and we can all return to the original purpose of this group, which was sharing our stories. I am continually amazed by the charge, levelled at me, and others (usually women writers) that we concern ourselves with subjects that are trivial, meaningless, and "emotional". Those subjects, of course include children, parents, friendship, love, loss, death, aging and sickness, our bodies, jealousy, heartbreak, survival. I am always happy to hear about basketball games, or foreign wars, or the world of finance and industry, or books, or pets, or music, or neurology here. I love it that those subjects all crop up in this forum too. But one thing I never expect to change here is the respect this community continues to pay to the value of understanding and sharing personal experience, and exploring our emotional lives. Some may call that self-involved. I call it self-aware, and not only self-aware, but neighbor-aware. I do not know how I could write, if I didn't know the world and the enormous variety of experience beyond mine. This is one place I come to learn. Letters. I want to tell you one small story about letters, this week, and about the precious relationship of a writer and a reader, the sacred trust. About a year ago, an envelope showed up in my mailbox, with no return address. My own address had been written in the most spidery and quavering handwriting. Clearly this envelope came from a very old person. Inside was a short note, written on pink paper. "Dear Joyce Maynard," the note read. "You do not know me, but I have read your work for many years. I will probably die soon, and before I do, I want to place these letters in the care of someone who will value them and keep them safe." There was no signature. Inside the envelope were a sheaf of what looked like very old letters, written in a different hand. They were love letters, of the most passionate sort. Very beautiful. I keep them in a box beside my desk. I have told my children about them, so they will also know that these letters are meant to be kept always. I suppose someone, reading this story, could make a crack, right about now, about what a poor choice this person may have made, to choose, as the keeper of her love letters, the woman who has been described alongside the likes of Linda Tripp as the betrayer of intimate trust and privacy. Never mind. I know the difference between a relationship of trust, honesty and mutual respect, and one of seduction, manipulation and control. Had Salinger's letters to me been written in the spirit of the ones I keep in that box -- and not in the hand of a man who had written such letters to many other teenage girls, before and after me, whom he would later discard, without mindfulness of the enduring consequences -- I would keep them forever, regardless of their value. As it stands, the letters are, to me, the record of a damaging and abusive experience I am happily laying to rest. Now, shall we move on to other things? I want to alert you to an article of mine, appearing in the current (July) issue of Redbook Magazine. The article tells the story of Susan Wilson, a woman I visited last spring in Monroe, Louisiana, who discovered last year that the neighbor she had trusted and befriended -- a married man, member of her church -- had hidden a video camera in the attic of her house, for the purpose of videotaping her in the bathroom and in the bedroom, with her husband. Incredibly, that man is now free on parole, having never served a day in jail for his actions. Susan visits this site regularly, though up to now, she has not posted here. I expect we will hear from her soon, and I encourage you all to ask her more about her experience, and the work she is engaged in now, to create laws that will protect others from the kinds of violation she and her family experienced.
Next month, the same magazine, Redbook, will be featuring my story about my experiences in a refugee camp in Macedonia. I'll be able to tell you more about that once my story appears, but for now, I want to report the news that the family I came to feel so connected to, with whom I stayed in the Stankovic camp, were recently sent to Austria, where they remain, until the day -- soon, I hope -- when they can return to Kosovo and begin the slow process of rebuilding their lives. The other picture here is of Charlie and me, in Brazil (I was standing on the roof of a skyscraper. The photographer asked me to stand on Charlie's skateboard, and I complied. Then he said, 'how about on one leg?' and just as my son said 'not a good idea, Mom,' the skateboard gave way under me. Luckily, my son caught me. The picture you see here was featured in a Brazilian newsmagazine. I'm off to New York City to sell a bunch of letters. Home soon. Joyce
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Months
ago, I promised you a picture of our website friend Karen, from New Zealand,
who paid many of us here a visit a while back, and admired a dress I was
wearing at the time. Since I had several dresses in that style (thanks
to tireless thrift shop shopping), I gave Karen one of them. This is a
picture of the two of us in our Diane Freis dresses, at Glide Church in
San Francisco. Incidentally, my sons deeply regret that I didn't give
Karen ALL my Diane Freis dresses. They regard these dresses as among the
goofiest of my many goofy outfits, although I believe they love me anyway.
Finally, a reminder. As you know, this website could not exist without
the extraordinary work and devotion of our webmistress, Myrna Uhlig. Myrna's
compensation comes entirely from the proceeds of sales from the 