The Write Stuff

March 1999
The Write Stuff
By Bob Coskrey

An event of unparalleled significance occurred here at “East Cooper Monthly” recently. We had a mistake-free edition? No. The staff accepted one of Bill Macchio’s ideas? Hardly. The mayor of Goose Creek called to say he would soon be presenting me with a key to the city? Never. No one called to complain about one of my articles? No, but close.

Someone, not even related to known by me, actually made a positive comment about my writing, and even more important, they had the nerve to put it in writing. Never in my 16 months of churning out miles of borderline scintillating articles for “East Cooper,” have we received a single letter to the editor that could have been interpreted at being complimentary of my occasionally misguided but always diligent efforts.

However, all this changed when Bill excitedly handed me a stack of circus registration forms, which some of our readers had returned in anticipation of winning free tickets. His comment to me was:

“Look through these, you might find them interesting.”

The forms also contained a survey asking the reader to answer questions about our magazine. As I flipped through them, I noticed nothing unusual, just the regular laudatory comments about the calendar, the dining section, and Howard Elgison, until suddenly, there it was, my name, as the answer to a question other than “Which of our contributing writers is most deserving of capital punishment?” On the contrary, the question was, “Which did you like best about ‘East Cooper Monthly’?”

This person had actually stated that he liked my articles better than anything else in the magazine. However, before I had time to spend even one George Hamilton second under the rejuvenating rays of reader adulation, my eyes strayed to two other questions:

1. Have you read East Cooper Monthly before? To which the respondent answered: “No.”
2. If so, how frequently? To which he answered somewhat cryptically: “Frequently.”

So this bona fide, rara avis Bob Coskrey fan has never read our publication before, and what’s more, he never read it frequently, which I guess means that whenever the fickle fate of coincidence placed him within reach of a pile (Maybe stack sounds better; the City Paper comes in piles) of our magazines, he reluctantly picked one up, then holding it at arm’s length, while turning his face in the opposite direction, as if dangling a 3 day old severed head, he would shriek passionately.

“I will never, ever read one of these, do you hear me? Never, by God, no matter what you do to me or my family!”

But obviously, he did finally read one this particular time, during which his eyes, as luck would have it, fell upon one of my articles, and he liked it. He liked it, he really liked it!

But, as with most people who admit to something they feel that the rest of society may not agree with, he was reluctant to share his feelings with anyone else. Writing a letter to the editor praising my work would be like branding his forehead with the “Scarlet Letters,” C.F. (Coskrey Fan), and he would subsequently be subject to the ridicule of more discriminating readers, not to mention being banned from the cities of Goose Creek and North Charleston (which actually is not necessarily a bad thing).

So this brave but tortured man did the next best thing, electing to express his singular opinion somewhat indirectly and anonymously through a survey response. His name would not be emblazoned on our editorial page under the heading, “Courageous but foolhardy reader risks reputation, life, family, and livelihood by admitting admiration for unpopular writer.”

I do, nevertheless, have the man’s name, address, and telephone number, which, of course, gives me tremendous power, but why would I want to divulge my only fan’s identity, knowing the devastating results this would have for him? Well, perhaps, if it were necessary, I could use this information to coerce him into being the president/only member of my fan club, a secret fan club, naturally.

It is my feeling that there must be other readers out there with equally deficient taste and literary judgment, who may be willing o join this club as long as anonymity can be guaranteed.

First, we need a name for this clandestine group, so I am suggesting “Devotees of Likely to be Terminated Scribes” or DOLTS, for short. They will have to meet in secret locations under the sanctuary of darkness. I will make occasional appearances, sans honoraria, and will attempt to have writers of my ilk and destiny appear at time, too, such as Larry Flynt and Salman Rushdie.

So I will be calling my “confessed” admirer soon, with a veiled hint of “outing” to jump start him into setting up the fan club. If my hunch is right, the meeting places will progress rapidly from phone booths to parked cars in no time at all. In the meantime, those interested in joining, just write: DOLTS c/o East Cooper Monthly.

And remember our motto: Many may suspect you’re a DOLT, but only I and your fellow members will know.