I am a columnist for a local paper in the wine country of Sonoma, California, called The Sun. I learn from the vast fun and horror of Guardian Weekly articles ranging from the story of the frolicking and huge bunny rabbit named Atlas to the terrible killings in Mexico. I stick my nose in your paper and won’t come out until I’m done.
When I visit the local pub on Wednesdays, my friend John Micklewright from England passes copies of the paper around as we push and pull, eyeing them longingly. I finish mine at home, labelling each one so I know which friends I should pass them on to next. Some people prefer medical issues, some film and so on. Everyone loves to see me open the trunk of my car, knowing that means the papers are forthcoming.
The way you cover psychological issues, political ones, science, and sad and edgy questions makes me feel like I’m talking to a good friend. I feel less alone in the world laughing on one page, gulping for air on the next – reading about some of the world’s sorrow.
I love the foldout photos, full-page journalism and still recall the Arianna Huffington review piece – I must have read and underlined it three times. Thank you for covering everything from sex after 50 to the deep and serious problems of the world.
And my community thanks you.
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