Dear T — 

I have so much to tell you but I will keep this letter short(ish). I don’t want to overwhelm you.

First where I’m writing from today, my favorite coffee shop. I wrote here every morning for years. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

I can sit for hours writing, completely entertained. Not just entertained, happy. It’s what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s where I belong. 

(The other best thing I’ve ever done is watch movies — one, two, three a day, every day, for forever now.

If I watch one more I’ll become one.

Actually, last night I dreamt I starred in a murder procedural alongside Colin Farrell and Dean Norris. Great casting, I think.)

My bestie said something that struck me —So, this is personal, D. This is YOU writing letters, not a version of you or a character or a caricature of you.

(Look at those beautiful sentences. S is a professional writer, too. She writes like she sings, angelically.)

Guilty. This is the voice I hear in my head. The main one.

Artists imagine everyone.

(Someone who’d read a ton of my writing once said —You’re very comfortable in language. I don’t mean to brag. Just wanted to share the single thing I’m most proud of.)

At first I felt guilty about writing my own story. Until Kiarostami. —What could we depict with greater authority? he said. If we’re honest enough, it’s universal.

I have two writing inspirations who could not be more different, Joe and Jim. I met Jim once. (!!!!!!!!!!!) I asked him —What’s your advice to young writers?

I didn’t like his answer. He said —Write your own story then throw it away. He went on —Everyone has one story to tell. Writers have many stories to tell.

I say the main one seriously. We are always bursting. We can’t contain it. We ignore lines. We are humanity itself. We have to be. We are all Whitman. We contain multitudes.

Being human means having empathy, and artists imagine everyone. I’m not saying the artist is the most evolved form of human being.

Actually, that’s exactly what I’m saying.

(Ever watch a record spin — the center so quickly, the edge so slowly? Capture as many songs as you can. Let us be dynamic inside, serene outside.)

My old priest told this story though. (I’m a lapsed Episcopalian, the Rolls-Royce of Christians.) He said his mentor in seminary told him to come out of his shell.

He took it seriously. He did. Weeks later at morning announcements, the dean said —Whoever told Sam to come out of his shell, will you please tell him to go back into it?

True story.

— Ever D

P.S. When I wrote here, Charlie Kaufman would often be at the opposite table. We’d look up, nod, then write again.

P.P.S. Someone came up to me and asked what I was writing. You would not believe what I told them.

Dear T — 

I lie in bed most nights, awake, thinking of things…people…stories… Though, I’m still avoiding the one I have to write.

Writers typically have two problems. Either they don’t know what to write or they’re too lazy to write what they know. Oh, and money. But nevermind that.

I’ll talk about both things. I’ll feel less lonely.

I procrastinate by starting new projects. Like this one. Like my anthology. The issue is you just create more work.

For example, I went to McDonald’s for lunch on Sunday.

The restaurant was filled with Chinese and Korean families who all bring their loud, small children there after church. I love this. The best thing about America is when it’s not America.

In line in front of me, an old white man with a simple ring of white hair ordered an ice cream cone. When the server offered it to him, he replied —Am I a pig??

(Several answers came to mind, but I kept quiet to watch the events unfold.)

The old man repeated the question; the server continued to stare blankly at him. Finally, the old man told the server to cut the scoop of ice cream in half.

The old man looked back at me in disgust. I said —In America, everything gets bigger. Including us. Then the old man asked the server —Where’s the chocolate?

The manager came out —You didn’t pay for chocolate. But he pulled out a cup and filled it with chocolate and gave it to him anyway. The old man went away.

A few minutes later, the old man came back and said —What, no napkins? An older Mexican server, worn smooth by angry white guys, gave him some.

It was an entire Charlie Kaufman film ready for the taking.

My mentor at Harvard (who lived in the house Mark Twain did) had a basement full of file cabinets. I tended to them. He kept every fact that ever interested him filed away.

He always said —Creativity is confusion. Eg, reading the word seamen but thinking the word semen. I often imagine this bearded, wild-eyed man sleeping above his buried treasure.

(Sonic Youth said —Confusion is sex. So, creativity is sex.)

I think, people don’t need a push. They need a pull — something they can’t let go of even if they fall and skin their knees time and again.

They have to, to live.

Or if they don’t let it out…

I have hidden veins. At the doctor, they have to poke me 8 times before finding one. But when they do, the blood flows rich and quick.

When you find your story, it’s like opening a vein. Which brings me back to my story.

The problem in losing someone is that there is always a phantom love. There are many ways to make love. You choose the one you need. The unexpected is the best.

I bought a new camera and some “fast glass” — a lens that opens wide and takes in everything but gives back only the soul of something, much like the artist.

There is no limit to how much you can procrastinate.

— Ever D

P.S.

If you’re really stuck though, remember — dirt is rock. Powdered rock. If something can grow from that, imagine what can grow from your heart and soul.

P.P.S.

It’s my birthday tomorrow. This was my present.

Dear T —

It’s hard to tell your own story. I know. Right now, I’m digging up the seed of my life, a lost love.

We live linearly. But at any given moment, our lives — our pasts — are both heterogeneous and multiplicitous.

In other words, beyond us and a jumble — everything connected to everything else, without beginning or end.

Today we could reassemble it one way, tomorrow another. And did any of it really happen?

I don’t mean to be a nihilist. Truth is as incontrovertible as bone. Yet quickly, even a wound becomes a dream.

Then there’s perspective:

I once was an introvert, but went so far in, I came out the other side. Now no one would believe I’m not an extrovert. Including me. Who I was is different, because I see it differently.

Have you ever felt at peace with your past, unafraid of your future, and bathed in sunlight — in every cell of your being — in the present?

Once, a friend’s kid pointed to a drainpipe and said, “penguin.” There it was: the pipe, its head; a crack, its beak; some drips, its body; more cracks, its feet.

It was a penguin and was not a penguin all at once. Am I a penguin, or not a penguin? Who decides?

Perhaps, like a painting that a painter sees before painting it, the image of myself passes through me, while I still control each stroke.

Most importantly, whoever you are and wherever you find yourself:

Have you ever felt at peace with your past, unafraid of your future, and bathed in sunlight — in every cell of your being — in the present?

I have, only once and for a moment — before dusk, in the summer crowds of London, when I walked up to Her and said, simply, “hello.”

— Ever D