Oops, My Readers Are My Friends Now

I just met with one of my readers this morning, and it never gets old. People ask me all the time: does it get old? Don’t you just hate meeting all these people?

And I answer them, no, nope, never. It never gets old. Despite my “Whac-a-Mole” jokes about them on Twitter.

Don’t get me wrong, I love nothing more than responding to reader emails. Such a privilege! But often it does feel like playing Whac-a-Mole. (Again, a game I love dearly.)

— Thomas Mark Zuniga (@thomasmarkz) March 4, 2019

Many years ago, I met an author at a coffee shop and was a nervous wreck — before, during, after. He wasn’t this big-time name or anything, but still. I couldn’t believe he’d agree to meet with me, me, a lowly reader, let alone suggest the idea himself after hardly a few emails exchanged.

I could’ve never fathomed I’d be on the other end of the table all these years later. Meeting my readers.

It’s a dream come true, really. That I can even write words for a living. Let alone see my words land with people.

My words landing with them as their words wander into my inbox.

We exchange stories. And as we exchange stories, common ground is formed. Digital common ground.

And, sometimes, coffee shop common ground.

That I actually get to meet so many of the folks who read my words is nothing short of remarkable. Validating. Humbling.

That so many of my readers eventually became — are, indeed, becoming — some of my closest friends is an altogether other matter of remarkableness. As if this mysterious force binding my words and stories to words and stories in other states, other time zones, other nations weren’t enough.

Every now and then, I scroll through my Facebook friends list, and I used to bear a lot of shame over the fact that 90% of my friends come from the Internet.

Okay, maybe not 90%. But 80%? I should literally count it one day. It’s a very high percentage.

I realize this concept of “Internet friends” isn’t as taboo these days. Internet dating certainly isn’t. Now it’s just dating. When people ask “how did you meet?” I feel like “the Internet” isn’t as crazy an answer as it used to be.

It’s been a wonderful thing, and it’s been a debilitating thing, all these Internet friends. On the one hand, the Internet has filtered out “real life,” so to speak, connecting me — connecting us — with the people we deeply want to connect with. People with common interests, common sexualities, common faiths, common cross-sections of all these things.

And on the other hand, the Internet has totally spoiled “real life.” Real life relationships — or the hapless pursuit of them.

In this wake of deep Internet connections, real life relationships have grown so challenging for me. Real life relationships as an adult. Real life relationships as a single adult. Real life relationships as a single Christian adult. Real life relationships as a single gay/SSA Christian adult.

The Internet (and good old aging) has made me feel so “niche.” No longer am I “fellow student” or “fellow church-goer” or even “fellow human.”

Where do I find my niche in this real life, real world?

I have been blessed to enter seasons of life-giving connection in this real world. At churches, in small groups, at camps, at similar gatherings. It’s felt terribly short-lived, but it’s been so restorative.

And then I’ve wandered. Wandered for literal years searching for my people. A place to belong. A place to be real. A place outside the Internet’s shortcuts to connection, healthy or otherwise.

As effective as the Internet has been to form deeper relationships, it can’t trim the physical hours or miles separating all these soul connections across time zones and borders, stateside or international.

Maybe teleportation will actually be a thing before we all die?

Nonetheless. I’m blessed by such supportive readers, many of whom have indeed grown into some of my dearest friends.

I’d have never expected that. It’s certainly not why I got into writing.

I got into writing because, well, writing got into me. I didn’t have much of a say in the matter. In the beginning were the words, the words came in, and the words needed to come out.

I started writing blogs and then books because it was only a matter of time before I did. Before I had to. And I’m glad I started sooner than later.

Even gladder that so many moles out there have resonated with my words as I whack them, proverbially, again and again, email after email, coffee shop after coffee shop, budding friendship after soul-knit bond.