Well, it's that time of year. Time again for the annual editorial in which the Sun Star's managing editor begs for feedback, comments, any sign that somebody on campus is reading the paper.

Begging is beneath me, so I will instead make an indifferent plea, more of a subtle petition really:

Please, please, please! For the love of all things holy, give us some feedback!

We spend a lot of time putting together this paper every week. We give up our weekends and social lives and spend quite a few late nights and early mornings making the best paper we can.

We don't do it for ourselves (I would much rather be sleeping than writing this), nor do we do it for our parents (my mother will probably have a heart attack when she sees this week's cover). We do it for you, the students at UAF.

On Tuesdays we put the papers out on the racks all over campus. A few days go by, the piles in the racks grow smaller, and I wait for my inbox to fill with letters: comments, kudos, criticisms, anything giving me some indication that we reached somebody for better or for worse.

Nothing. My inbox instead fills with press releases from Gov. Murkowski's office, advertisements for Ciallis, lists of lonely housewives in my area ready to meet and impassioned pleas from African dignitaries in need of American bank accounts.

Does anyone actually read the paper? I'm starting to have my doubts.

I guess this self-doubt all began a week or so ago. I was sitting in class on Tuesday night when I saw a man enter with a Sun Star in his hand. This has been the highlight of my semester, because this man always comes into class on Tuesdays with a Sun Star in his hand.

"Yes!" I think to myself. "People are actually reading it. They love the Sun Star! Nay, they love me!" (I know it may seem a bit unhealthy to tie my need for approval into the success of the Sun Star, but that's not really the point, and besides, they're my crazy thoughts so mind your own business.)

Anyway, I had never actually seen him read the paper, only carry it in to class, but that didn’t matter. Anyone who took the time to pick up a copy was surely going to read it—pour over its contents.

On this night, however, we had a small lull in the class and, to fill the time, he pulled out his Sun Star. I watched him, curious to see what articles he took the most time on, which ones made him pause and reflect, which ones made him laugh, which ones made him cry.

He looked at the cover—obviously admiring the full process color—and then flipped open the first page. Since this page was just an ad and the list of contributors I wasn't too surprised when he passed it over with nary a glance. But on the next page the content started—the real meat of the issue, all of our hard work and toil.

He turned the page. And the next, and the next, spending a mere second and a half on each. When he reached the back page, he read all the comics, folded the paper up and threw it into trash. It took him about 27 seconds to read the paper from cover to cover.

Is that all the paper is worth, a mere perusal? I wanted to ask him what would have made him stop and savor, what did he want to read. But class started again and I just didn't bother.

See, that's the problem. I have no idea if we are giving you what you want, or if we are merely filling 27 seconds of your week.

Do you like what you see in your paper every week? Tell me. Do you throw the thing away in disgust? Tell me.

I need to hear from you; I need to know you're out there.

I'm begging you.

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