As the comments and e-mails I've received from so many of you throughout the years have proven, a natural byproduct of writing publicly -- whether as a professional or an amateur -- is that people begin to feel like they know you. Put yourself out there -- inject your personal feelings, beliefs and, occasionally, very soul into your words -- and you form an unusual bond with the people who read your stuff. If you don't accept that the forum you've chosen to avail yourself of creates and fosters this kind of relationship, you really need to put down the laptop and go sell Tupperware or something.
Which brings me to Mary Elizabeth Williams.
I've been reading the pieces she regularly cranks out for Salon pretty much religiously for quite a while now. Sometimes I find myself nodding my head at the social and cultural observations she makes; sometimes her Upper West Side-centric brand of feminism pisses me off to no end. Regardless, however, I always marvel at her way with words. No matter what she's saying -- she's saying it extraordinarily well, because she's a terrific writer.
This morning, I woke up and saw that the top column at Salon was penned by her. In it, she reveals that earlier this week she was diagnosed with cancer.
I don't know Mary Elizabeth Williams -- but because I read her so often, I feel as if I do. Maybe that's why it hit me so hard to hear what she's now up against.
All I can do is wish her the best -- and let her know that I'll keep reading.
Salon: "My Cancer Diagnosis" by Mary Elizabeth Williams/8.13.10
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