Some Emails Are Just… There

I still remember a time when getting an email from someone who allegedly read something I wrote always felt positive and exciting, like finding a surprise note tucked into a library book. Because someone, somewhere, read something I put out there and thought it was worth the effort of reaching out.

That phase... did not last. Especially not once reaching out to others online became about something other than straightforward connection to so many of the people doing it.

As a result, opening my inbox feels more like opening a junk drawer these days, because I don’t know what I'm going to get when I do it. Sometimes it’s something useful or interesting. Sometimes it’s nothing. Then there are the times there's something faintly sticky in there that leaves me wondering how it even got there.

Now don't get me wrong. I still get good emails — thoughtful, genuine ones. Messages that make it clear the person actually read whatever they're claiming to have read, understood it, and didn’t immediately decide this created a private channel between us. Those are very much welcome, and I love receiving them.

They are also not at all what this post is about.

The Emails That Stop You Mid-Sip

I know you know the ones I mean. The emails that make you pause with your tea halfway to your mouth while you try to figure out what, exactly, is being asked of you and how you ended up in this position.

These are the emails that request unpaid labor without quite admitting that’s what they’re doing. The ones that confuse admiration with access, assume urgency, or seem to lean into intimacy that was never offered. The ones that seem to think your inbox is a concierge desk staffed by a very helpful version of you who exists solely to solve problems on demand.

They’re also often extremely polite, which is how they slip past your initial defenses, because politeness can do a lot of heavy lifting when it wants to. It also gives the sender plausible deniability when they quietly ask you to donate your time, attention, or expertise.

For that reason, you don’t always get what’s happening until you’ve read the whole thing and thought, "Yeah, no. Not my circus, not my monkeys."

Why Silence as a Response Feels Rude (But Totally Isn't)

Now, most of us were taught that every message deserves a response and that silence is inherently unkind. We internalize the notion that not replying means you’re being difficult, unprofessional, or maybe just quietly awful.

I don’t think like this anymore.

Email (especially from strangers you've never interacted with before) is not a moral obligation. It’s a tool, and like most tools, it works better when you decide what it’s for instead of letting the rest of society define its purpose for you.

Not every message needs to become a conversation starter just because the sender would like it to. Some are just... misplaced — someone knocking on the wrong door because they didn’t feel like reading the sign or following the very obvious path that was already laid out for them.

In those cases, silence is often the best, least dramatic choice. If you're lucky, the person who sent the message may even have sent it to enough other unsuspecting creators that they won't even remember reaching out to you in particular.

Inbox access is not a shortcut

Most unwanted emails follow a familiar pattern. Someone reads a piece, feels something, and instead of doing the next reasonable thing — reading more, following links, subscribing, applying the advice they already got — they decide the correct next move is to email the person who wrote it and ask for something.

And I get it? Going straight for inbox access feels decisive and proactive. It feels like taking the initiative that we all grew up hearing we should take. That doesn't make it reciprocal.

I'm not a massive creator with a big following or anything, so I don't get a ton of direct reader email. But when I do? A lot of it amounts to, “I read some of your work and found it helpful. Can you now personally guide me through an entire career transition?”

Usually for free. Often wrapped in enough flattery to suggest the sender believes compliments are a form of currency.

They are not.

Replying usually only makes things worse

I was definitely one of the many conditioned to believe every bid for my attention requires a response, no matter how weird the request made me feel, so it took me a while to really get this. But replying to entitled, presumptive emails rarely fixes anything.

When someone has already ignored the context around your work, a response doesn’t neatly reset the relationship or otherwise close the connection the way you think it will. All it does is confirm to the person that their approach worked. It also encourages them to do it again. It teaches them that bypassing the very public, intentional paths you’ve already set up is a viable strategy.

At that point, you’re no longer just a writer with a body of work. You’re a live support agent. And live support agents tend to get follow-ups.

Parasocial email is its own problem

Now, parasocial emails are slightly different, to way understate things, but they also create a similar kind of mess.

These are the messages that assume a level of closeness that doesn’t exist. They're the ones that speak as if a bond has already been established between you and the reader simply because something resonated, like you're already best friends or... "soulmates" (barf). The person sending them always takes it for granted that if they're feeling that strongly about you, then surely the feeling will become mutual the instant they reach out and let you know they exist.

One more time for the people in the back. Resonance does not automatically create a relationship.

And writing honestly does not come alongside an obligation to be emotionally available to strangers. Replying to these messages, even gently, often deepens the confusion rather than clearing it up.

So, in cases where you catch so much as a whiff of parasocial energy in an email? Non-response is really the only way to contain things. For everyone involved.

How I Decide What Does Get a Reply

The emails I do respond to tend to be very normal, grounded, and straightforward. For example, they:

• Are specific
• Reference things I’ve actually written
• Don’t ask me to recreate work that already exists
• Don’t assume urgency
• Don’t treat my inbox like a vending machine that dispenses guidance if you just shake it hard enough

Most importantly, they don’t present like I owe them a response (or come attached to an insane number of follow-ups when I'm clearly not planning on one). Everything else gets sorted into that "not my circus, not my monkeys" category I mentioned earlier.

You Don't Need to Exchange Access for the Privilege of Being Read

I've noticed this is totally where a lot of people get stuck, especially women.

Because we’re trained to over-interpret responsibility. If someone reaches out, we’re expected to manage their feelings. If someone is polite, we’re supposed to reward that politeness with friendly, enthusiastic access. And if someone feels disappointed or hurt by silence, we’re supposed to fix it.

This response is so deeply ingrained that women often even do this to other women, despite knowing damn well how it feels.

You don’t have to do that.

The email narc task force isn't going to come take you away in an unmarked van if you let messages go unanswered without explanation. You’re within your rights to treat your time and attention as finite resources instead of a public utility.

Because email is a door. Not every knock requires opening it.

Some knocks are just someone hoping you’ll do all the work for them in exchange for a compliment or two. Others are someone mistaking your space for a help desk. And some knocks really are best ignored so the person can recalibrate and find the door that actually belongs to them.

That's more or less my stance these days, after a lot of frustration. And if that makes me less “approachable,” that’s A-OK with me. I’d far rather be read than reached anyway.