Why I Want to Invite You to Tea

You plainsmen, you glittermasters, you field-walkers, you dreamers.

Trackless Wild has reached 6,000 subscribers. I alighted in the dashboard the day that happened and nabbed a screenshot for proof. Unless folks have unsubscribed, we can say 6K.

I’ve been here four years.

I made my first post July 11, 2021 on a platform I’d never heard of until two weeks earlier, when a writer in my creative nonfiction course explained the term “Substack” and advised me to check it out. Terrell Johnson is a runner who writes about running, and he wanted to take my course to see if he could improve his craft. Now his Substack, The Half Marathoner, has 41K subscribers, which has everything to do with sticking with a thing.

I’m grateful to Terrell for the introduction.

Last week I told you that I’d be writing about a new baby in my life—and me old enough to be her great-grandmother, if you squeeze the generations. I have been writing that essay, about how Little Fawn is doing and how I am doing. I’m not finished, however, and it’s too important to rush.

Instead, I want to talk about our community of readers, now 6,000 strong.

As my numbers grew on Substack, something happened to me. For a moment I faltered. These people were no longer simply my friends; we had outgrown the friend’s circle. These were strangers. What did they hope to learn from me?

When a person subscribes, an email pops into my inbox listing a name and a tiny bio a person has added to their profile. In my faltering, I began to read these mini-biographies in order to figure out who you are—and by inference, who I am in your eyes.

I know, this is a teenage problem. But it beset me and caused me to be afraid that I might not meet everyone’s needs, which is obviously The Caregiver archetype showing up, although I am not really The Caregiver.

The biographies were endearing and endlessly fascinating, and not one arrived that I did not long to pick up the phone and call you, had I your number. I wanted to invite you one by one to tea at my house. I would let you sit where you could look out at roses blooming, and beyond that, into the pasture where anything can happen—wild pigs, wild foxes, wild deer, wild killdeer, wild swallowtails. And I would ask you, “What is a neutrino?” and “What’s your novel about?” And, “Tell me about Portugal.”

I began to take screenshots of the biographies, wishing I could write hundreds of novels and put you as characters in them. This week I want to share as many of your bios with you as Substack will allow.

Writer of short and long fiction. People and places. Scotland.

Semi-retired, currently teaching chair yoga and gentle hatha classes for older adults. As an active adult, I love living in the West End, Vancouver, BC, close to the ocean, sea wall, and Stanley Park.

Retired librarian who spent his career fighting censorship and trying to make access available to everyone.

I am an editor, author, book-devourer, story-diviner.

plainsman

Retired UMC clergy from Oregon-Idaho

A human making art and music.

I’m a chef and a writer, a hunter and a gatherer, a Buddhist and an aspiring minimalist.

I’m a husband, father, veteran, and new writer developing a historical fiction novel.

Retired teacher.

I love everything reading and writing related.

Field walker. Dreamer. Maker of marks and brushstrokes. Beholder of this magical world.

Just trying to learn more.

Little Fawn is ready for tea.