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.