Writing Marie, 2

Here is the letter I wrote Marie today. One thing I learned from my Working Out Loud circle is to start with some kind of contribution, something of value to the other person. I hope this counts.

Dear Marie:

Schmidt tells me you got my last letter, so I guess this address must be valid. Can you stand one more?

Thank you for introducing me to the writing of Dorothy Bryant. I don't think I ever said that before, which makes it long overdue as she has become -- belatedly -- one of my favorite authors. Part of what I love about her writing is that her stories are so hopeful, in a way that has nothing at all to do with the events of the plot. Anna Giardino is mugged; Booker Henderson flees into hiding; Mei-Li Murrow is trapped in a madhouse; India Wonder dies of cyanide poisoning; Ella Price abandons home and family on Christmas Eve and is last seen on the operating table; the Unnamed Narrator is sentenced to death. And yet, ... it's OK. For all of them, what happens is, in the end, somehow right and good. I'm not sure I know another writer of fiction who can stare so bravely into the face of desolation and misery, and find hope and value inside. Even her villains aren't exactly "villains" -- they're men like Willie Fortuna, who make stupid, destructive choices because they just don't get it; but the evil they do is almost a form of clumsiness rather than real malice.

I should qualify all that a little: it's hard to find anything hopeful in A Day in San Francisco. But even there she plays absolutely fair with her characters: Frank makes arguments that sound every bit as strong as Clara's. The only way to know that her arguments are better is to see it ... somehow. But at the same time it is easy to understand Frank thinking as he does.

Of course it is partly a matter of taste. I gave Son 2 a copy of Miss Giardino for Christmas last year, telling him it's one of my favorite books, and I don't think he saw much in it. Maybe he'll come back to it when he's older (he was 16 at the time) ... or maybe not.

In any event -- as I said -- I have to thank you for introducing me to her writing.

I've been hesitant to write you because I've been afraid you won't want to hear from me. Our correspondence has broken off several times in the past [once she wrote me to say flatly that she never wanted to hear from me again], and by now it has been years since we wrote each other. It's easy to imagine you looking at my last letter and this one in puzzlement, wondering "What the hell? After all this time? Aren't we done?"

And if that's your reaction, I wouldn't blame you. At the same time, from my side, I hope to hear back. One of the benefits (if you can call it that) of separating from Wife has been that I am able to see how thoroughly I abandoned my circle of friends. I'd like to repair some of the damage, if possible. And if you do write back, I promise to talk about more than just books.

At the same time, I don't want to be a pest. So let me offer you a deal. After sending you this letter (which, as noted, I have reason to think will arrive safely) I won't bother you again unless and until I hear back from you first. That way if I am being a pest, all you have to do to shut me up is fail to reply.

But if you are interested in renewing the conversation, I would love to hear from you. It doesn't have to be volumes: even a post card is enough to transmit what is (after all) one bit of information -- "Yes, keep writing" or "No, go away." As you can see from the envelope, my street address is: .... If surface mail doesn't appeal to you, my home e-mail address is: .... And my phone number is: .... That number accepts text messages as well as phone calls, but ASCII text only. My phone is too primitive to accept photos or colorful formatting.

I hope to hear a "ping" back from you, and I look forward to it eagerly. 

All the best, now, ever and always,
Hosea