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So much of modern communication is done via text or email, including fan mail. It makes sense and, honestly, saves on the cost of envelopes, stamps, time.
But how refreshing to receive this note from a 5th-grade teacher in Arizona:
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Dear Jaxon,
Thank you for your terrific letter, which arrived today via snail mail. You must be an old soul. I’m so glad that you enjoyed . . .
Hey, wait a minute. You hit a double? One-handed?
WOW! I am not worthy!
Anyway, ha, that’s pretty impressive. But honestly, the most impressive part was that even though you were injured, you still wanted to take the field with your team. Play the game, wear the uniform, cheer for your teammates. I love that.
My oldest son, Nick, inspired the heart of Six Innings. While he was undergoing treatment for leukemia, a type of cancer, Nick still played for his Little League team. And it was a struggle. He was often tired, weak, not at his best. But to him, it was about belonging. Being as normal as possible. Winning and losing with his friends. Just being a regular kid.
So, yeah, Jaxon, I hear you loud and clear. My Little League days as a player were long ago. But like you, I can still remember specific moments with teammates, games, plays that happened 50 years ago. I mean, that’s crazy. But it’s another reason why I wrote that book. Because I knew in my bones that these experiences matter to young people. We care so much. It means a lot -— even though life is big and, in the scheme of things, a Little League game is next to meaningless. But at the time, in that moment, it’s the whole world.
Hopefully your wrist has fully healed and you will be back and better than ever. And thank you for expressing interest in my other books. I’ve written a lot of them.
My book, Blood Mountain, just went into paperback (cheap!). It’s a wilderness survival thriller about two siblings and their dog lost in the mountains. And if you enjoy scary stories, you might like my new collection, Scary Tales: 3 Spooky Stories in 1. It’s 300 pages but fast-paced and easy to read.
Thanks again, my friend,
James Preller
P.S. In case you are wondering, Nick is healthy now, living in NYC, and recently married. A big thank you to all the heroic doctors and nurses who care for children with life-threatening illnesses. Those people are amazing.
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NOTE: One of the benefits of snail mail is that I typically include a NY Mets baseball card with my letters. So at least there’s something of value in that envelope. In this case, since Jaxon is clearly a fan (like me), I sent along a few.
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Confession: I’m not sure if this is technically a piece of “fan mail.” The United States Postal Service was not involved, and it did not arrive to me via email. This note was handed to me toward the end of a school visit in Mahwah, NJ.
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I read the note — those extraordinary thoughts — and I looked at the young girl before me. “Is this for me? To keep?”
She nodded, shyly.
“Would it be okay,” I asked, “if we took a picture together?”
She thought that would be fine.
So here we are (note: permission granted by Sorella’s parents).
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Days have now passed, a full week come and gone. I still wanted to respond in some way. But how? What words could I say beyond, simply, thanks?
My response below falls short, I suspect, but it’s something.
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Dear Sorella:
It’s been a week since we meet at your school, Joyce Kilmer, somewhere in deepest, darkest New Jersey. Since then I’ve gone to concerts, read a lot, seen a movie, visited with family, walked my dog a million times, done all sorts of things . . . and yet I keep thinking about you and the kind note (with blobs of silver glitter!) that you handed to me in Mahwah.
I’m sure that I don’t deserve it. I mean, I don’t think your note is really about me, “the real James Preller,” author of books for young readers. Instead, I think you captured something about how some of us feel about books and reading. You see, I’m a book lover, too. We have that in common. I know that feeling, of just holding a book in your hands, and in your heart, and feeling the wonder of it all, the deep pleasure of connection. Whole new worlds opening up before our eyes.
It’s amazing what a book can do. How we can sit silently, perfectly still, alone in a room, and yet feel intensely connected to the characters and events and, yes, even the author. We can read a book written more than a hundred years ago by a woman in a small English village and feel her thoughts and imaginings, intensely. I’m thinking, by the way, of Beatrice Potter, who published The Tale of Peter Rabbit in 1901. Potter is a personal favorite of mine, but I could have named anyone, really. We read a book and travel across time and space. We sit alone and yet we are not alone. We are free. As if we were sitting around the same fire. “Companions of the flame,” wrote the poet Hilda Doolittle.
If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.
Speaking for every author I’ve ever met, thank you, Sorella, for the gift of being that good reader. I’ve long felt that books are only alive when they are read. Otherwise, it’s just a waste of a perfectly good tree. When my work is done, the book is no longer mine anymore. It’s yours, Dear Reader, Dearest Sorella. Magically, amazingly, you sat in a room and made it all come true.
I’m grateful for you, and grateful for the kind heart that moved you to say such lovely words. “Flowers for the living,” the Irish expression tells us. I don’t deserve them, but I do accept them, gratefully, as a stand-in for anyone who’s ever dreamed of writing a book. Here’s the secret: The dream isn’t to write a book. The dream is for someone like you to come along one day and read it.
Please keep reading, keep seeking new books, new authors. There are so many, many good ones out there. And, oh yes, please keep writing, too. And drawing. And decorating your missives with glue and silver glitter. You have a gift for it.
Your forever friend,
James Preller
P.S. Please thank your wonderful and talented media specialist, Mrs. Oates. She’s the one who did all the work. Long ago, she invited me come to your school. We exchanged a dozen emails. And she put in all that work for you, for every student at Joyce Kilmer. I’m just the guy who got swept up in her good intentions. Lucky me.
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