The Search for Advice

Every letter published since 1996 is available online. Sorted by year, each page contains at least seven hundred letters, sometimes more, which of course is only a fraction of the number of letters received. As I sift through the digital stack, searching for my own answers, I try to imagine each letter as a scene of the moment the sender sat down to write it. I imagine a willowy, white-haired woman carefully stepping over uneven shards of a porcelain urn, a light dusting of muted gray ashes along the floor, pulling out from a thin drawer a soft piece of stationery and a black pen:

Dear Abby,

My husband and I got into an argument about who should take our sick cat to the vet to be put down. I told him it would make me too sad to go, and he said I should “toughen up.” He made me so angry that I threw his mother’s ashes at him (we kept the urn on a bookshelf in our living room). Now he won’t talk to me. How do I apologize for what I did but still make it clear to him how his words hurt my feelings?

Apologetic in Alabama

If the sheer number of letters doesn’t completely overwhelm you, the variety of question, the dramatic scope and unrelenting oddity of each letter, likely will. If you can get through a few months of letters or, as I did, a small sampling of letters from each year, then you will start to notice trends—trends in the questions that are asked, the answers that are given, the headlines that accompany each daily collection of letters. “Irritated Stepmom Needs to Learn to Let Go.” “Student Goes too Far for a Good Grade.” “Husband Battles Mother-in-Law for Custody of Cat.”

Formatted to mimic the headlines of the papers in which they’re printed, advice letters quickly become news. Carefully selected, sensationalized, and seemingly staged, letters detailing others’ misfortune, confusion, and naiveté feed our penchant for gossip under the guise of advice. I’m reluctant to admit my own thrill at reading private glimpses of strangers’ personal struggles.  A man who thinks he’s the second husband is really the fifth husband; a twenty-two-year-old who married young wants out; a lonely daughter needs a friend; a frustrated father abandons his son; a defensive mom wishes to protect her street-performer son from cruel hecklers in the crowd.

I imagine Proud Mama in the crowd, sitting dutifully in the camping chair she brought with her, watching her son lip-sync “Hound Dog” into a fake microphone. I picture her taking out a pen and legal pad from her tote bag as passersby taunt the Elvis impersonator, writing desperately to Abby for advice on how to defend the darling son. “I’m appalled at how rude some people can be with their heartless remarks.” Perhaps she even drops the letter in a mailbox standing nearby. When the letter is published, it serves as a rallying cry for a distressed mothers everywhere.

Looking again at the stack in front of me, I notice two common styles or types of letters within the varied scenarios. The first type asks for a prescription or recommendation:

Dear Abby,

My neighbor loves to cook fish for dinner, but it makes our whole apartment building reek. I don’t want to seem picky or controlling, but I can’t stand the smell. Is there some way I can get him to stop cooking fish so often?

Smelly in Salem, OR

Though this would likely be a better letter for Miss Manners, who specializes in neighborly etiquette, it’s a brief illustration of the first major type. I call this type of letter the what do I do? letter. It’s written before another step is taken, and I picture these senders putting their social engagements on hold while waiting patiently for a response, which of course means waiting for the question to be selected and published.

I imagine a tired mom skimming the newspaper each morning, waiting for an answer before disciplining her disobedient teen. I picture a teacher at the end of his rope, a boss who’s afraid to say no, a girl in love with her best friend, a maid-of-honor insulted by the groom-to-be. Each faithfully checking the paper, or the column online, hoping for an answer or plan of action.

The other type of letter, it seems, seeks some form of affirmation: was I wrong? Am I wrong to feel this way? It varies from the first type in that it’s written after the step has been taken—after the potential wrongdoing has been committed. A husband who lets his ex-wife crash on the couch while she undergoes cancer treatments. A bride who wore sneakers to her wedding despite her mother’s pleading. A wife who refused to entertain her estranged father-in-law. A sister who gave up on extending an invitation.

Dear Abby,

I always make an effort to invite my sister to any parties or get togethers I’m having, but she never comes. I recently had a cookout at my house and didn’t bother to invite her. Now she’s mad at me and says she feels left out. Was I wrong to not invite her?

Frustrated Sister

I picture Frustrated Sister dropping off a package at the post office in town,  pausing a little before posing the question to a friendly clerk. Perhaps Frustrated Sister called her mother, an authoritative, though subjective, third-party, for advice on the situation. Or was it a failed online search that prompted her to write? A search for “family party invitation etiquette” that returned 24,000,000 results with none of them particularly relevant to her situation, none of them addressing her concern.

Either way, Abby can’t be the first place people turn to for advice. Surely there must be a step in between, an excavation of search results, a book to read, a workshop to attend. Shouldn’t it be someone we know? Someone who can respond sooner and more directly to our confusion and frustration?

When I stormed out of one of my first job interviews, I called my dad. Was I wrong? When I experienced loss for the first time, the unexpected death of a close friend, I hugged another close friend. What do I do? When, in a moment of irrepressible anger, I yelled into the phone words that were too harsh for a crying mother, I turned to my sister. Was I wrong? When he moved away. What do I do? When I slammed the door in his face. Was I wrong? When I told him it was over. What do I do?

Looking back, I don’t remember the words of advice; I don’t remember the steps or recommendations. I remember my dad’s calm, reassuring tone. I remember the hug, the feeling of  hopelessness, the sharp reality that, no, there is nothing you can do. I remember friends huddling around me. I remember the guilt, the pain, the anguish, softened by a connection with others. I remember moments of weakness, deep vulnerability, forming a bond between us.

There is, actually, a third type of letter: letters that respond to other letters. Letters from readers who support or disagree with, congratulate or criticize advice-seekers. Letters that comfort and discourage; letters that provide their own advice. “I think your response to ‘Apologetic in Alabama’ was wrong.” “I don’t think you can tell your neighbor what he can or can’t cook in his own apartment.” “I agree with Proud Mama.”

These are published regularly, and with a frequency that calls attention to the undeniable popularity of the column itself. Whether this popularity stems from an obsession with others’ private lives or reflects a collective longing for answers is debatable. Nearly twenty years of letters provide evidence of both and, if nothing else, demonstrate the power of advice to connect us personally, physically, and anonymously.