Stalking Jon Carroll

The first house I owned in Oakland had three claims to my heart — its wonderful Craftsman built ins, never painted; the beautiful garden I transformed from glass and weeds and dog poop to a scent garden with carefully tended flowers that bloomed throughout the year; and lastly, its proximity to Jon Carroll.

I read Jon Carroll's column each and every day with my Peet's coffee, and to this day it provides yet another reason for my fealty to Oakland. I remember the day I realized that Jon Carroll lived in my little Glenview neighborhood; in his column he referenced Poodles a la Pamela, one of our more bizarrely named local enterprises. I had to rush home to send him an email, as if he would say "aha - it's you!" and would begin to join me for coffee in the morning, take long walks through the neighborhood with me and discuss French films, Willie Brown's hats, the need to buy local and the general superiority of our neighborhood. Instead I received a four-word reply to my email, but it was enough to awaken my Inner Stalker.

For the next ten years, I looked at every older, bearded man in a hat with a snappy brim, sure it was he. I walked up and down the two streets on which he was rumored to live, waiting for him to come out and discover me and immediately ask to read the plethora of short stories and manuscripts I had waiting in my office, just two short blocks away.

Alas, Jon Carroll never came out to play. So in the end I paid to meet him as part of a writers workshop, to have him critique my work and perhaps, just perhaps, to discover my kindred spirit and exceptional talent...my Svengali, ready to introduce me to the publishing world.

Somehow the workshop went terribly, awfully wrong. I sat in a room with two dozen other aspiring writers, waiting for the opportunity to read my writing aloud, sure it would be my shock and awe moment. I toyed with the idea of sharing my stalking with him, in a short story, but I was concerned that flattery might slide into fright and a need for a restraining order, so I abandoned that witty piece and shared instead a piece I had already written about my secretly gay husband.

It was not my moment of glory. My piece paled in comparison to the trucker's, who wrote about the invasion of Iraq and how we might feel if soldiers were in our living rooms, asking for information about our neighbors. And the woman who somehow telepathically RIPPED OFF MY IDEA but did it better, writing about coming to the class that day to find out if she had IT. That IT I was so sure I had but she got to it first, leaving me with the dregs. All in all, my short story received a few laughs, more than its share of puzzlement and a lengthy discussion about what "gayness" meant and how appropriate it may or may not be. My cheeks were flaming, my lunch threatening to revisit me, and never have I been so glad for time limits and rules that meant the person to my right could now share their pearls of literature.

At some point, I offered to send Jon Carroll a story I had written about adoption and gay and lesbian parenting, a subject near and dear to his heart. He said he'd read it and to include my URL. I felt redeemed, and had some hope that when he finally read my blog he'd see that yes indeed I did have IT, that he would need to pass on my URL and my name to his countless publishing contacts and in no time, no time at all, I would receive a call, an offer, or at least some emailed words of encouragement.

That was 6 weeks ago. Thanks to the steady reports from my StatCounter, I am fairly certain that Jon Carroll never visited my website and never had the opportunity to be dazzled by my prose. Or perhaps he slipped in under the radar and was just too embarrassed by my clumsy writing to ever respond.

So now I skulk around Glenview, avoiding all bearded men in hats with snappy brims and that conversation that might start with "oh, yeah...that story..." and end with my abandonment of all writing and perhaps quitting my job to go to some trade school. Yet every day I read his column, drink my Peet's coffee, and dream that perhaps one day...with the right guidance, editor and prescription drugs...I might be the reason someone gets up in the morning, grabs a cup of Peet's, and settles in at the computer to start their day with Being Mom.