Am I “lonely”?

2023-01-10

Dear reader,

Being elected State Representative has multiplied the presence of such wonderful gifts in my life as unsolicited fashion advice and misplaced invective.

I say that without irony. The invective can be humorous. I have decided on a policy of not debunking weird rumors as long as they make me laugh. And, as long as I remember my gratitude for the body I have and did not choose, the tailoring suggestions can help.

And then, there are those comments that feel unwelcome but not misplaced. Last month, a voter, a thoughtful elder on whose door I knocked while campaigning, emailed me with three agenda items. First, to congratulate me. Second, to tell me how to improve my look. Third, to suggest I publish less.

She wrote, “Like so many intellects over the centuries, you work out your thoughts in words. People throughout history have learned to use journals and diaries for that purpose. You have to edit your public utterances WAY down. It makes you look lonely, that you have no one with whom to work out stuff verbally.” She goes on to point out that publishing is a waste because of how little people read.

I felt annoyed. I like writing. I like publishing. Readers tell me it connects us. But I also wondered again if these are indulgences that I should give up. After reading one of my Reformer columns last summer, a mentor emailed to say, “One of the things politicians give up is the public expression of their private thoughts.”

Newly sworn in, Rep. Tristan Roberts was seated last Wednesday in the Vermont House of Representatives.. Photo by Kelly Fletcher

Should I stop this? I didn’t want the answer to be “Yes,” but I felt I had to consider it.

Perhaps I should craft my image. Emphasize desirable traits, like confidence, and not appear vulnerable. Play up my poise. Show jubilance at appropriate moments only, like election nights. (But not too much, Howard Dean.)

To heck with it.

One of the reasons I write is when I feel alone with thoughts I can’t stand. When I publish them and they find your eyes, you and I both find that neither of us was ever on our own. 

Writing this way feels expansive. Seeing a map of my thoughts reminds me that I and them can be two different people. Laying them down like a tap-dancer and shifting them around with a hop this way or that can lead to a discovery. I can break up with a thought I don’t like, or commit harder to one.

I write like I build a fire in my woodstove. Logs and sentences both burn brighter when they are gathered as friends. When I set a sentence down on a blank page, it doesn’t remain alone for long. Thoughts build on each other. If I stick with it, I’ve learned something by the end.

“Write what you know” is common—and incomplete—writing advice. I say, start there, and move toward what you don’t know. For this, publishing gives me a fear to confront. I’ve learned the most from publishing the essays I was afraid would “cancel” me.

There is a hunger that compels me. Maybe it looks like loneliness to you. If I took your advice, would I cease to write as soon as my cup is filled with contentment?

A confession—sometimes I feel shy to write about joy and fulfillment, that it might clash with humility. But if we were to censor our love from our writing, our papers might fill up with a thin gruel.

I want to heed my wise elders, but I won’t.

My partner caught me last night holding myself in.  “Are you having trouble taking up space?” she asked.

We were laying around the woodstove. I had begun sharing about a checkers game when I was 17, when I paused and asked, “Do you guys want to hear this story?”

Called out on it, I admitted that I was holding back. I wasn’t sure if I had told this story before, and I didn’t want to become like my grandfather. He would repeat the same stories, with no apparent care for we had already heard them six times. 

But when I said that out loud, I realized that my “Opa” was jovial, not lonely. He installed a basketball hoop and a pool for us grandkids. He always had a smile, a warm chair for me, and a project to share.

I realized that I’d give almost anything to hear Opa’s voice again. Visiting his childhood home on the Northern prairie in Alberta last month gave me a new understanding of him. I’ve been reading aloud to my family stories of his life he wrote down, like his encounters with the town doctor, who was also a refugee and a morphine addict. This same doctor became a hero in Opa’s eyes when he got clean and served his community well when the Spanish Flu arrived in Canada.

You never know when a story from the past can resonate. So I went for it and told the checkers story. It exemplified how I felt with my friend group as a senior in high school. I was the fourth leg on a stool—seldom in sync with the other three. The story had come to mind, but I had paused because I didn’t think it would be interesting.

Then my son said, “That sounds a lot like me in my friend group.”

We went on to peel the onion some more. Talked about how sometimes you can feel left out just by luck—but there’s always a chance to repair the connection, if you look for it and are willing to put yourself out there. 

Does our puppy’s nose feel “lonely” before he presses it onto my lap? Maybe when we shun “loneliness,” we are turning our backs on a signpost to connection. Maybe politicians who push undesirable traits into their shadow become ruled by them.

Yes, I am lonely. It’s one of the reasons I write. And also, I smile to you—good day!

Warm regards,

Tristan

P.S. Are you lonely? Joyful? Let me know in the comments below.