Dear Sugar,
I just heard that you plan to reveal your identity at a party The Rumpus is having for you on Valentine’s Day. I don’t know how I feel about that! I really want to know who you are, but I also don’t want to know. I’m afraid knowing will ruin the magic you’ve created here. You’ve thought this through and I trust you’ve made the right decision for yourself, but could you explain your decision further please? Does this mean there will be no more “Dear Sugar” column? Will you keep writing it under your real name?
Thank you!
Unsure
Dear Unsure,
In the beginning many of you assumed I was Stephen Elliott. Months later I received an email from a reader telling me she’d done her research and figured out I was Elizabeth Ellen. Later still many members of The Rumpus Book Club were sure I had to be Lidia Yuknavitch. I’m none of these people, though the company flatters me.
Whenever anyone asked who I was I told them I would tell them someday. I said it here and here and here and I said it every time anyone inquired over email or Twitter or Facebook. I want to tell you who I am because it feels like the right thing to do, like we’ve reached a point of intimacy where I really ought to introduce myself. I want to see what happens next, to experience the column as the Sugar who doesn’t have to keep that one big secret that hundreds of you have been told or figured out on your own by now anyway. The Sugar column won’t change, at least outwardly. I’ll continue to write it as Sugar. You’ll simply know who I am after February 14th.
As if in so many more meaningful ways, you don’t know already.
I have a book of poems called The Only Window That Counts by a poet named Deborah Keenan that I inherited from my mother after she died. I read it over and over again all through my twenties. I loved that book so much, not only for the beautiful poems, but also for the brief notes my mother had scrawled in the margins in response to them. I read the book so often that I reached the point where I stopped reading it because the words inside had become part of me—both the poems and my mother’s notes. I knew them.
One of the things I knew was that there was a poem in the book called “Anonymous” and beside it my mother had written “someone who does something for Love.” Just like that—with love capitalized and underlined. I’ve thought so often about that poetic definition of the word anonymous over these past twenty-two months that I’ve been Sugar. It seemed the only definition I needed. Love was my mission and my reason.
So it came as some surprise when, as I wrote this letter to you mere hours before it was to be published, I pulled Deborah Keenan’s book from my shelf and paged to the poem I’ve carried in me so long only to see that its title is not “Anonymous,” but rather “The Amateur.” Though I was exactly right about the note my mother had made next to its title—right down to its capitalization and underlining—I was mistaken about the title itself and therefore wrong about the poetic meaning of the word anonymous.
An anonymous person does not do something for Love, it turns out. An amateur does.
That I was an amateur at giving advice when I agreed to take over the “Dear Sugar” column from the genius writer who wrote columns 1-26 was never in doubt. That I would write it anonymously was.
Why not simply call it Ask (my real name)? Isaac Fitzgerald, Stephen Elliott, the first Sugar, and I collectively wondered over email. There was no reason in particular not to, we all agreed. If I used my real name at least I’d get “credit,” which would perhaps make up a tiny bit for the fact that I wasn’t being paid. The decision was up to me. Anonymity won out because I was interested in doing something I’d never done before. I thought it would be a hoot to write whatever I wanted while hiding behind Sugar’s veil. I could be someone I made up—a funnier, snarkier, more outlandishly fucked up and/or more unimpeachably flawless version of myself. I could boss people around without consequences. At last, for once, nothing was at stake.
Or so I thought for about ten minutes.
Way up high on the list of the values and truths I most deeply hope to convey in this column is the fact that something is always at stake. Our integrity. Our internal sense of peace. Our relationships. Our communities. Our children. Our ability to bear the weight of the people we hope to be and forgive the people we are. Our obligation to justice, mercy, kindness, and doing the stuff in bed (or beneath the bathroom sink) that genuinely gets us off.
Given this, I quickly realized there was no way in hell I could write a column that offered advice about how to live and love while making myself into a cooler caricature of someone I halfway sort of didn’t actually wish to be. I had to give you the person I am in response to the people you told me you were; to hand over whatever stories or thoughts or opinions or observations that came to me through my authentic self—the one otherwise known as me.
So I gave her to you as Sugar, while dismantling what anonymous means.
Aside from my name and a few identifying details, I’ve told you many of the most intimate details about my life. I’ve shared my secrets and sorrows and fears and desires and innermost struggles and work-a-day realities. I’ve told you so much that I deleted the paragraph I originally wrote here, in which I summarized the things you know about me, because it went on too long and you know them already anyway.
And yet: you “don’t know who I am.” Isn’t that interesting?
I didn’t write all that stuff about myself because I was freed by my anonymity. I wrote it because I’m me. The way I write the Sugar column is the way I write. Because of this, many of you have figured out my name. You read something I wrote as the “real me” and you recognized me. You knew me without knowing me.
Maybe what scares some readers about knowing who I am is that they don’t want to see me. They want to see themselves against who they imagine me to be. Ruth Franklin wrote about this in her article about my anonymity in The New Republic last summer. She wondered if my “column can continue to maintain its aura of wisdom…if the woman behind the curtain is revealed,” and noted that “‘Anonymous’ swells in proportion to something far larger than an ordinary name.” She expressed concern that it will be harder for you to take my advice once you attach it to a particular person—me—rather than an online persona as “anonymity bestows upon an author something akin to a magical power.”
I think it’s interesting that you both used the word magic, Unsure. As in, the magic will be ruined if I tell you who I am. Mr. Sugar worries about this too, as do many readers who already know who I am, which I find odd, since the “magic” of my anonymity either never existed for them (because they began reading the column already knowing who I was) or it was “ruined” long ago (because they learned my identity along the way). These people are some of my biggest fans. The “magic is ruined” for them, but they’re digging it anyway and so their worry isn’t about their experience of the column, but rather what they perceive as the experience of others who don’t know my identity and therefore must presumably have some level of perceived magic maintained in order to find it meaningful.
The magic of anonymity for women writers throughout history is that it allowed them to publish their work. They wrote under male pseudonyms or they didn’t sign their names at all. A woman’s name on a poem or essay or story or play was the opposite of magic. That has gnawed at me. Virginia Woolf famously said “anonymous was a woman,” but I never intended to be one of those women. I owe them too much to be.
But of course you and Mr. Sugar and Ruth Franklin are speaking of a different sort of magic—the magic of mystery, of knowing something but not everything. Perhaps you’re right about the necessity of this particular kind of magic. Maybe this whole thing will crumble once who I am is no longer a secret. I’ve embraced that as one possibility. I’ve even thought it might be for the best. I respect people who write advice columns for years on end, but I don’t imagine I’ll be one of them. I always believed there would be a natural end to the “Dear Sugar” column—or at least a drastic downshift in its regularity. I’ve written it as a body of work in a way more akin to a novel or memoir than a years-long Q & A. There’s a beginning, middle and end.
I don’t know exactly where we are now. I only know we’re at the place where the plot thickens.
A couple of years ago I was at a big reception where many writers were in attendance and someone pointed out a woman nearby and told me it was the poet Deborah Keenan. I asked the woman to introduce us and she did. I didn’t embarrass myself by expressing my admiration for a poem she never wrote called “Anonymous,” but I did tell her how much her book had meant to me and how much my dead mother had also loved it and how, as it happens, one of the last things my mother did before she was too sick to do anything was attend a reading that Deborah gave, where she also signed my mother’s book. She was gracious and warm to me—nodding and smiling at my little story—but it was difficult to think of what else to say as we stood there being jostled by people all around us.
Maybe that’s what’s hard about knowing people’s names. We don’t know how to tell them we love them. Their particularity makes us vague.
What you get from not knowing my name is that you don’t have to contend with whatever biases you might have about me based on how I look or what else I’ve written. Not knowing me allows you to have a purer vision of me. The actual me can’t interfere with whatever you’ve decided.
If you recognize my name when I tell you what it is, will it disappoint or delight you? If don’t recognize my name when I tell you what it is, does anything change? How am I less anonymous to you if my name is only a name? Here are the names of some of my favorite advice columnists:
Cary Tennis
Anna Pulley
Dan Savage
Heather Havrilesky
Rob Breszny (who is not technically an advice columnist, but close enough).
There they are, but what really do their names mean to me? I “know” them, but I do not know them. Between us there is the porous wall of knowing and unknowing, intimacy and distance, familiarity and formality that exists between any writer and his or her readers. Perhaps with Sugar and perhaps because Sugar is anonymous that wall is more porous than most reader/writer walls and what’s discomforting is that if I tell you one big thing about me—my name—I might feel compelled to tell you fewer little things. Some of the holes in the wall might need to be plugged.
This is another thing about which we’ll just have to wait and see.
I didn’t exactly know that wall would be so very porous when I first began writing this column, but I quickly realized that telling stories about my life was often the only way I knew how to communicate the complexity of my advice. Your story spilled into mine and then I spilled it back into you, with hopes that we’d all find ourselves somewhere in the big story that belongs to all of us in a place we made up called Sugarland, where you know me already, even though you don’t know me at all.
Yours,
Sugar
56 responses
Dear Sugar,
I don’t know who you are, but I do love you. You say what my heart needs to hear so I can make decisions. You’ve given me words of wisdom that I didn’t know I needed. And the only thing for me, that will change when we know who you are is this:
I am going to go out and buy ALL of your books. Well, a copy of each book you’ve written. (Actually buying All the copies of all your books is a bit beyond my means right now, but someday…) And I will devote a Saturday to laying in bed reading all of them, because I want to know all that you can give me through your words.
I actually do know who you are as of a few months ago (have kept it mum with the exception of one mutual friend of yours I told here in Iowa, knowing you planned to reveal this year anyway), and all it did when I discovered was make me want to read your book and adore you more. I was not familiar with your writing before.
I certainly hope you will remain as open and honest in the column when you reveal yourself as you were before. Somehow, I think the fact that you’ve already shared so much will allow you to continue on in that vein, which I know is what we all love so much about Dear Sugar.
Wishing you a joyous reveal! Wish I could be there in SF, my old stomping grounds, but I will be in snowy Iowa. If you will be at AWP, though, I would love to meet and say hi, as it will be after the big day.
As one of the people who knows and has resisted an “outing” I have thought about this a lot. What is it that has made me resist Sugar coming clean? Knowing who she is has only made this journey more joyful. It has added depth and context. Sugar is the reason I send submissions to The Rumpus and hope they will accept my work. Sugar’s voice made this site feel like home. So what the fuck is my problem?
Is Sugar like an indie band who is about to go mainstream? Does keeping a secret make me feel important? Does unearthing a secret mean I have super powers. No. No. No. and Yes. Yes. Yes. And herein lies my complete inability to imagine what knowing Sugar will mean to those who didn’t know before. Isn’t that just so Sugar? Speculate about magic and the nature of loving anonymous entities all you want. Discovering Sugar will mean something different to everyone and that is writing, is life, is wonderful.
With a given name or not, you will always be Dear Sugar. Thank you for your heartfelt, thoroughly thoughtful, and incisive writing. And cheers as you move out of amateur/anonymous status. I look forward to many, many more columns.
Personally I’m excited to find out. And, I think it is brave and honest in the way that I have come to know you to be.
Cary Tennis. Gah.
I personally can’t wait to find out who you are, Sugar! Like Jenn, I will go out and buy/borrow other books and pieces you have written. Can’t wait!
I will say that I am very scared of the day you no longer write this column…I hope I am free of all my fucked-up-ness by then…:)
Ok, but if the big reveal turns out to be like that scene in THE DARK KNIGHT where Bruce Wayne is about to reveal that he is The Batman when DA Harvey Dent unexpectedly steps up to claim the identity, I’m going to be ridiculously confused.
I’ve known who Sugar is for quite some time now due to her writing and the personal details she’s shared. Trust me, it doesn’t make a difference. <3
When I first read your column last October, I fell in love with your writing – with your voice. After spending several days reading past Sugar columns, I had to know your identity. So, I put two and two together, and with a little internet sleuthing, I found out WHO YOU WERE!
The thing was, when I finally found out, I have to admit, I had never heard of you. And that bummed me out. You were still anonymous to me. And, doing so was kind of like opening presents before Christmas, or reading a movie spoiler. Yes, the mystery was gone. But, I was left with a bigger mystery – who was this woman, really? And, why don’t more people know about her? The real you deserves to be recognized for the great writer that you are. For your amazing insight and wisdom. For all love that you give to us, your readers.
Knowing your real name gave me a person to picture and made you real to me. It inspired me to support you in your non-Sugar, non-anonymous writer’s life, so I bought your book (heartbreaking and beautiful) and tried to find your writing elsewhere (can’t wait for the next book, btw). And, I shared your column with anyone who would listen to me.
You are no longer anonymous to me. And it makes your writing even better. Being real is better than being magical.
Your mother’s handwriting looks exactly like my mom’s.
xo
I feel like I found out who Sugar was in a magical way, like it was meant to be. I was reading a magazine from many years ago that I was about to give away. The page I opened to had a story very similar to something Sugar had written that same day, and by the second page, I knew without a doubt that it was her. My heart actually started to race at the knowledge. I was very taken by this magical coincidence.
But still, “being real is better than being magical.” Beautifully put, Michelle.
I figured out who you were awhile ago, and believe me, she is still magic. Only difference is now is a human, rather than a super-human (which somehow makes her more super-human?), and I’ve purchased her other writing.
It might transform, but magic can’t be taken from a community like this one. TRUST.
I am secretly hoping that your initials just happen to be DS.
I figured out who Sugar WAS awhile ago, and believe me, she is still magic. Only difference is now she is a human, rather than a super-human-heap-of-sugar (and her non-anonymous humanity somehow makes her more super-human?).
It might transform, but magic can’t be taken from a community like this one. TRUST.
Sugar –
I, too, look forward very much to being able to immerse myself in whatever else you have written which has been published under some other name(s). You have so many times been able to connect the suffering of those whose letters you have answered with your own . . . and, of course, in the process connected that suffering with my own. The answer(s) you have given to them – ’bout what they should do – have managed to connect the love they have inside them with your own . . . and with mine.
Having worked on the periphery of the “ease suffering” bidness for several decades, I hold pretty firmly (with both hands – and, as necessary, biting down & growling) to the belief you have espoused so consistently & gently – that we need to look directly at our own suffering. And then let it go. The means to letting it go, as taught in the lessons I have received here in Sugarland, is to also look directly at the bountiful love we have . . . even if that love can’t be found in our circumstance, but needs to be found inside ourselves. And then embrace that love wholeheartedly.
Suffering – even here in Sugarland – is quite real. But so, too, is the love. Stories you have told (and which I hope you continue to tell) about how to let go of the former and embrace the latter are indeed quite magical.
I don’t think you will be able to convince me that you’re not the Sugar I love, no matter what other name you claim.
And, of course, I love you. Thanks so much.
Its one of the greatest gifts to being a writer, the words that come from a voice otherwise unheard.
Thank you for being you.
If you have written with truth–from that secret place of beauty and love, ugliness and hate that only you know–the bravest thing you can do is take ownership of your words. To do so is to lay claim to your imperfect glory, to your life. And that is courage.
Your writing (and now actions) has taught me that, Sugar. Thank you.
I read an essay once and was smitten with the writer — unknown to me but the voice so strong, so honest that I thought this, this is my new standard in personal essay or writing or maybe even honesty. When I read my first Sugar column, I recognized the writing. The magic is in the voice and message, not in its anonymity. I agree with Telaina.
The magic is in your words and the way you write them.
Your writing has been an act of courage, as is revealing your name.
I look forward to saying Sugar and your name together; they’re already the same for me.
I did figure out who you were, having read other work and having been a Facebook friend with the you-of-your-real name. Sugar’s voice is so consistent with your other wiring. Embarrassingly I outed the Sugar-you in front of a mutual friend and the you-of-your-real-name handled it with grace. I think it’s time for you to be revealed…I think the results will be more vegetables for the delicious stew.
And that’s other WRITING…though I suppose other wiring works in an odd way.
Long before I learned about “Dear Sugar”, I was a fan of your writing. I stumbled upon Sugar, and immediately recognized your voice. I think you owe it to these loyal fans to share your other work with them. They & you deserve it! Glad you are coming out!
In my mind, Sugar is not anonymous. I know you as well as I know any writer and probably a damn sight more than other writers because of your authenticity.
Here’s a confession: my name is not really Johnny. I took on that persona a few years ago, after the divorce when I was getting involved with roller derby girls. They each get to choose their own names and they sometimes choose silly, bawdy names and sometimes they choose meaningful names. When I was announcing their bouts, I chose the name Johnny Trash or rather it chose me. Silly but it worked for me and when I met the woman I am in love with, two years ago, I was introduced as Johnny.
So now she calls me Johnny and can’t imagine me as anyone else. And I am Johnny when I’m with her. When I’m at work, I am Neil and my job is fittingly nerdy. But when I’m Johnny, I’m…well, I’m still nerdy but at least my name is Johnny. And it makes a difference. I’m not hiding behind my name and I am proud of the scottish heritage that is behind Neil. But I chose Johnny, and it feels good to be called that.
My point? You will always be Sugar to me. Even if I love the rest of you (and I’m sure I will). You don’t need to keep secrets and neither do I. But we both should keep our chosen names.
Dearest Sugar,
I believe that your column is magic. You make the magic.
I also like to go to magic shows. My rational mind knows that it’s a system of levers, pulleys, braces and sleight of hand. My childlike mind believes that it’s magic because I want it to be magic.
My rational mind knows that you’re a real person, but I want you to be magic.
I will go to your magic show only if you promise to not include large tigers. That never ends well.
Love,
Pinky
I love that all the fans who know who you are don’t spoil it for all of us that don’t. While it may have been fun to discover your identity on my own, I am excited to know I will be finding out directly from you, and not by a spoil sport. I too am looking forward to reading more of your work.
I don’t know who you are. I don’t care who you are. No, wait–I care who you are, I just don’t care whether I know your name or not. I love your courage and your connection and your willingness to share that with your readers. I don’t expect that to change. Thank you, Sugar.
I only just discovered you and the entire “rumpus” website a month or so ago, so I didn’t realize your anonymity was such an issue. 🙂 I just love you and think you write beautifully, and I thank you for all that you offer here. ♥
My only worry has been that you won’t feel as free to share some of those details of your life without the anonymity. I know I would be a lot more forthcoming about certain things on my blog if I were anonymous. If my worry is unfounded, then knowing your real name will add to the column’s power, not subtract.
Knowing who you are hasn’t changed the impact your words have on me a single bit, and that’s the root of this thing. I’m happy you’re going for it, and full throttle! A part of me is selfishly glad because I really want to know more about this entire Anonymous experience, which I can only imagine will be easier/simpler to talk about once the veil is lifted.
I came across a bookstore the other day here in Brooklyn called “Spoonbill and Sugartown” and it of course brought this column to mind. Thank you for creating our own Sugartown! It’s a place I carry with me everywhere.
Wow. I loved this intelligent, thoughtful, stimulating essay on what it means to write anonymously (and not). Thank you, Sugar, for your intelligence and your emotional bravery. It’s been something else watching you make this column what you’ve made it.
Sugar,
I don’t know your name… but I know who you are. And truly, that is the most important part. Those couple words that were printed on your birth certificate don’t define you. I can’t look that up in a dictionary and understand your soul. Your writing, your passion that drips through your heart… that defines you. Your name means nothing. You will always be my inspiration. The only reason I want to know is because I want to read more of you… I write so much better because your words are in my life. Thank you. Truly and deeply. I love you.
Jen
I read some of your signed writings, which made me weep for you and for the younger me that I hadn’t thought about in so long and for the me that still holds my wretched experiences. Later, I found “Sugar.” Staying up at night reading and reading previously published columns, I started to feel like I knew Sugar from somewhere. I finally read a column where it all clicked. I reread some of your signed writings, and I knew. I love Sugar, and I love you through your signed writings. Thank you for being vulnerable and teaching me more about understanding. I love you.
Hi Sugar,
I am a longtime reader of your column, and the previous Sugar as well. I’ve been reading this column for what has been years now. I just discovered that you intend to reveal yourself this week. I must say, I am only interested in this because I would like to read your other work which you have spoken of in the past. Your real name and/or anonymity have never concerned me in the least. It’s never been an issue because of your honesty; a kind of searing honesty I have felt in very few other places, and I have been in some places.
For some reason, I have always felt like your column is one long sweet goodbye. Maybe it’s cause I get a bit teary on many of your responses, which resonate so deeply and make me laugh so often.
Whether your revealing spells the end of Dear Sugar or not, I would like to say thank you. For your emotional honesty and for your ability to reveal yourself so beautifully in your writing. Knowing your name will not change the fact that Dear Sugar is one of my very favourite writers. But I would also like to say goodbye for when the time eventually comes that this column ends and to let you know that I have enjoyed and appreciated the effort you have put in here. You have been a joy in my life, and well, I guess I can say it easily, I definitely love you. You have always made me think and for me, there is no greater gift.
Lots of love to you.
I understand the reader’s fear, but I am excited for Sugar and for us, her readers. This moment reminds me of that moment in a relationship, friendship or lover, where you move from the early days of magic and mystery into something deeper and more meaningful. That moment when you realize things are getting ready to get real. It’s the for better or for worse moment and it is delicious, and scary, and necessary. Thank you Sugar for being so brave and sharing yourself with us.
As a lesbian, I passionately believe that “to know us is to love us,” which is why coming out is so important.
I believe that’s true for all of us, and I know it will be true for you.
Happy Coming Out Day, Dear Sugar!!
I am mostly sure who you are — I just haven’t attempted to confirm it 100% because I thought a little remaining mystery would be nice — and just ordered your book. I have a feeling I’ll know as soon as I start reading whether I’m right or not. In any case, the way I felt about or read your columns didn’t change for me when I uncovered your identity. I wish you much luck and love during and after your reveal.
On the one hand, the magic was nice. On the other hand, I’d love to read your other works. On yet another hand we realize I’m an octopus and have a mug, which reads ‘write like a motherfucker’. You are awesome, sugar.
A perceptive friend of mine directed me to your column after I started trying my hand at writing my own advice column. You are my dearest role model; you are what I want to be when I grow up. Thank you for your generosity and love and making-the-world-a-better-placeness; when I read your posts, I am full of humility and gratitude. I can’t wait to find out who you are so I can read your books. <3.
Unsure,
There’s no need to worry. I found out Sugar’s identity months ago, and the truth brought me only joy. It expanded my love for her, both as Sugar and as the named author I already admired. And it made the experience of reading the column MORE magical, not less.
I’m pretty sure I know, and don’t care. The only things figuring it out did for me was give me a secret to keep and inform my reading list. The next couple months are going to be rich.
When I first started reading Sugar I built this persona up in my mind, this woman who was black and white, who was old and young, who was a hermit in a cabin, and a slick businesswoman, wearing black in one moment, wearing riotous colors the next. She was both highheels and birkenstocks, southern and northern, but never at once.
She was this utterly impossible creature. It was beyond magic, it was this strange process of my brain to make her perfect in every situation.
And then, in a burning desire to read everything she’d ever written, I found out who she was (or, at least, cemented suspicions. Feb 14th will confirm or deny). For about two minutes I was let down by who this person was. She was just one of all those things, sometimes all at once. She wasn’t all in a pick-and-choose buffet.
Feeling hurt, mostly by my own stupidity, I went back and started re-reading Sugar at random.
And then it didn’t matter. It hasn’t mattered at all.
The magic isn’t the person, it’s the words. It’s the strength and grace and beauty in the writing, in the notions, in the message.
I hope your coming-out brings you the critical attention you deserve, I hope your book sales explode, I hope publishers decide to publish Sugar in book form, and pay you a boatload for it, I hope there are only good things that come from this.
But mostly, selfishly, I hope it doesn’t stop you from writing Sugar.
So i read what you wrote, and i liked it. As usual. And then i saw that there were 42 comments and a part of me wanted to go “hey! 42 comments! Douglas Adams! lol!” (even though i just smiled and didn’t actually laugh in an audible manner). But then i thought, nah, i won’t do that cos that’d be geeky and dull and not really add anything worthwhile, and besides, if i did comment on the whole 42 thing, then my comment would be the 43rd, and there wouldn’t even be 42 anymore, so that’d be totally self-defeating. But that kinda did get me thinking about something worthwhile – that sometimes you can’t have your cake and eat it; you can’t have the 42 comments and the comment about 42 comments. And you can’t have the magical connection of anonymity and the visceral connection of identity (and i don’t mean so much the name as i mean the connection between what is written here and the name – the ownership and the vulnerability that this entails).
So i thought it was worth giving up the nice, neat, 42 comments to give you people my messy, awkward 43rd comment, cos i think trying to make a connection is better than nice and neat. And in the spirit of this column i thought a bit less self sensorship would be a good thing. So i’m the kind of person who goes “ha! 42! lol!” in my head, but doesn’t say it, cos that would be, like, way sad. And i’m the kind of person who will be really annoyed if someone’s written a nice, short comment in the time its taken me to splurge this so that this’ll be like the 44th comment or something and ruin the whole effect. And i’m also not ready to tell the internet my real name – its not the right thing for me just now. But i’m glad you are, Sugar. I think it feels right. It feels like just the kind of vanquishing of self-sensorship, just the kind of connecting with people that you often do. I hope it goes really well.
Ha! 43! lol!
In college, during the 60’s, I had many friends with whom I spent good times and bad, lots of profound conversations; you know, that deep stuff you get into at 3 in the morning over too much cheap wine? And we all had nicknames! To this day I don’t know who those people REALLY were, but I knew who they were really.
So. The only advantage I can see to knowing who you REALLY are is that I’ll be able to track down your other writing. Otherwise, “Sugar” is fine with me.
@Linus
I love that. It made me lol. I love this column and the commenters. I love the arguments and disagreements, the messy and the tidy and the bitter and the sweeeeet. I think if I thought I would know the real Sugar personally, I’d be more excited about knowing her real name. But learning to love this column even when it felt itchy and uncomfortable to me has been part of learning to “inhabit the beauty that lives in my beastly body & strive to see the beauty in all the other beasts.” I’ve started to see that even when it is going very well, it’s still pretty messy. Thank you, Sugar and everyone, for this place.
A friend put me on to this great column- yours- and I have been completely smitten with it ever since. Here, I have found words with a pulse and a heartbeat that is so palpable, and a voice that is so loving and inspirational, that I have sincerely been trying to be a better human being as a result of reading your column. And I’m not the kind of person who reads something and embraces it. In fact, I harbor strong suspicions about those people. Well, no more. I’m a covert.
But a few years ago, in a creative writing class, I was handed a non fiction essay, and I have lost the printout of it, and went looking for another copy, not really remembering the author’s name or the title, but randomly searching for the details I remember reading in it. I wanted to have it again because I loved it. It was the kind of writing that broke my heart and frustrated me and took up a corner in my mind and would not leave. Re-reading it, I can see how much my thoughts differ from the initial read, and pondering those differences has made me get to know myself better. I don’t claim I understand what the writer was trying to say, because no one can make that claim, but I saw how much more empathy I had for the situation described, wearas I had only sympathy the first time around. The first time, I found myself asking, “What do you want me to say to you, or someone like you, when these awful things happen? You present these examples of the wrong way to deal with grief, but you offer no solution”- I thought this because I was 19; the second time, that thought didn’t even enter my mind. Instead, I just grew paralytically overwhelmed at the idea of “you and you, get in.”
The details I searched for to find the essay to have a copy again, because I carried them with me long after I lost the paper copy- they’re yours. I figured that out pretty fast, but I’ve been good about keeping quiet, even though I’m very excited by my discovery.
I want to thank you, doubly, for that essay, and for this column, both of which I encountered by chance, and both of which have made a deep, unforgetable impression on me, and inspire me, though in different ways, to be better and braver and kinder and more grateful for what I have in my life.
Keep doing what you’re doing. It’s beautiful.
*convert.
Oops.
I live in a town in Texas called Sugarland… oh, the irony.
I love you Sugar.
I don’t want to know…. And I can’t wait to read your book and other writing. I discovered Sugar over the summer and the column has been a tremendous source of comfort as I grieved my brother and beyond. Up late nursing a new baby the past 3 months gave me a chance to catch up on the full archive of columns on my phone. Thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing your life and your gift and urging us to reach, too.
Rather than ponder how Sugar’s reveal will affect us, Constant Readers, I think about what the reveal means for Sugar. And I think of a stage and a heavy red velvet curtain slowly rising, revealing our beloved, beautiful Sugar standing in the spotlight. And she steps forward and takes a bow and we give her a standing ovation. It’s time to recognize! Thank you, Sugar. Thank you, .
@ Lara: Thank you – you’ve made me a very happy man (and you didn’t even have to marry me to do it). You’ve done a good deed by me and i appreciate it. Hooray for encouraging-ness =] And i love the sugarism you quote. Natalie is right; Sugar deserves a standing ovation. I hope she gets one, and lots of congratulatory hugs from good friends, too.
OMG IM SO FREAKING EXCITED
I do worry that some of the magic “mystery” will wear off once we know your real name, but I’m pretty excited about knowing who you are so I can read some of your other writing, so maybe it will balance out. 🙂
“Trust the tale, not the teller”
D. Knopfler
Anonymous or not, you still write like a motherfucker, which is all that matters, neh?
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