It ain’t what they call you, it’s what you answer to.

—W.C. Fields
_____________

Well, it’s been a wild ride, these last three months. Seems like a lifetime ago, when I was eagerly anticipating the arrival of that magical date. July 1st. The official release for my book. Time, however seemingly frozen, does creep on. As it did. Day after agonizing day passed in slow motion. Until the day arrived.

And strangely, my pre-release inner turmoil escalated. The book was my impossible vision, my dream, my baby. Packaged and presented to the world. What would the world think?

From my gut instincts, and from my blog fan base, I figured the book would be well received, at least in a tiny sliver of the market. But still, the tension increased. Exactly as the Tyndale people had warned me. It’s the same for every author, even the wildly successful ones, they claimed. So just expect it. I tried to. But it was impossible to fully grasp the true meaning of their words until I experienced what it was they were talking about.

A few days before the official release, the emails started trickling in. I’ll never forget the first one. From a lady, over in the next county. Fairly local. She had picked up a copy at BJ’s Wholesale Warehouse. They had stocked the book a week early. And she had seen it there, picked it up, and read it. She was excited and highly complimentary. Seemed mildly astounded, even. The book spoke to her, she claimed.

And that was the first taste, the first feedback from an actual reader, at least one who had purchased the book. The reviews had been percolating out there on the internet for months. The great reviews. The merely good. And the ugly. But those were reviewers who had obtained an advance copy, some of whom seemed a little taken with themselves. They certainly weren’t real purchasers who had invested their own money.

Since that time, I have received hundreds of messages from readers. The vast, vast majority via email. That’s how people communicate now. And I don’t wonder at all why the Post Office is in deep doo-doo. They don’t deliver much any more. Ten, fifteen years ago, all those email messages would have been sent by mail. And I’d have tons of letters to answer.

I’d say 98% of the letters/messages are very positive. I’ve heard from many who have emerged from their own restrictive backgrounds. Catholics. Baptists. Jews. And many other denominations. I even got an email from a reader in Japan some time back. Somehow the story struck a chord with so many. The universal themes, the journey, the lostness, the searching. And the finding.

I have received a few letters, though. As in handwritten on a sheet of paper. Or typed. My work address is posted on this site. And some few who are not wired still crank out the old lines on paper. Send them in the mail. The emails are easy to answer, and I try to return a brief note to everyone who contacts me. Well, almost everyone. Spread the word. That’s what I tell them. After thanking them for reading the book, of course.

The real letters, though, well, that takes more effort. And so far, I’ve written back to only one such letter writer. Because she wrote one of the very best responses so far. A nice lady, from Massachusetts. Quite riled up, she was, and determined to set me straight. Instead of describing what she wrote, I took a picture of her letter with my iPhone.

After reading that, my head most definitely felt “booped.” And my rear end, well, it felt kicked as well. She nailed me. Did she ever nail me. And she was right on. Sarah did owe me one. Maybe she still does. The letter gave me some glimpse of how deeply some readers get involved emotionally. I am very honored to have such readers.

And Jean, if you read this, you got it done for Sarah. You really did.

Not all the messages are complimentary, of course. Or even cordial. Because, as always, there are the flamers (defined in Dictionary.com as Computer Slang; to send an angry, critical, or disparaging electronic message).

No one likes criticism, however valid. And yeah, I grew up hearing that old cliché. You learn more from criticism than from praise. Maybe so. But I sure ain’t never felt that.

It’s a trite truism, that one learns more from critics. Might be true. But I’d sure love to smash back at them in kind. Measure for measure, blow for blow. Sadly, though, I can’t. I’m the target. Anyone can take a swipe. Responding would only encourage more of the same. Arguing with critics just turns into one giant tar baby. Whack, whack back, and on and on. So I generally bite my tongue and brood instead.

And boy, are they ever out there, the flamers, furtively lurking in the safety of the vast impersonal world of the internet. Not in large numbers. But there. What motivates these people I won’t care to guess. But there they lurk and shiver in the shadows, their faces never clearly visible. Anonymity begets boldness. And boldness begets the occasional blast of mindless vitriol.

Which is fine, because that’s their right. But it’s not fun, if you are the recipient.

A few posted reviews on the book. And no, I won’t provide any links. But from their harsh cacophonous screeching, one might conclude the book might as well be burned. Destroyed. Certainly not read, by any sensible person.

And a few send emails. I usually read them, then hit delete. Cast them into the ether of outer digital darkness. A few weeks back, one such email arrived. Seemed innocent enough from the heading. I opened it. There was no greeting, no pleasantries. Just the terse lines. And no signature.

I’ve just finished your book ‘Growing Up Amish’. I can’t believe that
your writing of your self pity and self importance got published. I read
nowhere in the book where you cared for anyone other than yourself.
I read where you used everyone you could for self gain. If you really
think there is some ‘Jesus Message’ relayed in your book, your
badly mistaken!

I can understand why Sam lost hope in you.

I’ll call the guy Bob. Flamer Bob. I won’t use his real name, so he can’t preen and bask in some perverse self-aggrandizing glory. After recoiling a bit, I did what I always do with all such vitriol. Deleted it. Dumped it out. But a day or two later, I got to thinking. What if I engaged, just to see what gives? I planned to write a blog down the road about responses to the book. Why not post Flamer Bob’s letter, and a bit of correspondence? So I dug into the deleted bin and retrieved his letter. Wrote a brief response and sent it off to Bob.

Dear (Flamer Bob):

Sincerely,
Ira Wagler

Flamer Bob lay low for a day or so. Then he answered. Probably delighted that I had engaged, he actually observed some basic rules of politeness. Even signed off with his name. Might have been his real name, might not. All his correspondence is posted exactly as he wrote it. As is my own.

Dear Ira,
First, I don’t know what you mean by ‘win’ ! I am not out to ‘win’ anything !
What is it that you want to win ?
Second, I guess that I grew fond of your character (you) in the book and
continued to hope for a better outcome. Now I wondering when you will
write the second in the series titled, ‘Still Growing Up’.
And, quote ‘What exactly did you intend to accomplish by sending me your message?’.
Answer: a response.
Ira. After reading your book I can honestly say that I didn’t intend on accomplishing anything.

Thanks for responding
Sincerely,
(Flamer Bob)

And this was my final response. A bit terse, perhaps. But still, more polite than he deserved.

You, sir, are a Flamer. Google the term if you don’t know what that is.

Ira Wagler

And that was it, with Flamer Bob. I don’t know how he reacted, because he had no way to let me know.

I wonder who they really are, these people like Flamer Bob. In their everyday lives. And whether their flamer personas are a fraud. They might be the pleasantest people around, face to face. Neighborly. Helpful. Cheerful. Kind. And it’s only their alter egos that I see out there on the web.

But I doubt it.
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Last weekend I made the long trek to Shipshewana, IN, for a book signing on Saturday afternoon at the Davis Mercantile building. Shipshewana has exploded in the twenty-five years of my absence from the area. I remembered little of the countryside or the town. My hosts, Levi and Joanna King, were simply lavish in their hospitality. I met a lot of people during the 3-hour signing. Including some friends from way back I had not seen in decades. Even my wandering minstrel friend, John Schmid, showed up. He was in town for two nights of concerts.

Tomorrow (Oct. 8th) I will be at the Freiman Stoltzfus Gallery in downtown Lancaster from 11 AM until 1 PM, for a signing. An accomplished artist, Freiman is an old friend, and he has graciously offered his gallery for a signing. If you are in the area, stop by. And as always at any of my signings, bring your copy with you, or buy one there, or both.