Dear David


He couldn’t know it, or even guess, likely, or really have cared, but nonetheless, David Sedaris closed out my early summer trilogy of book readings.

And if I were to take his advice, I would write him a thank-you letter and fold that into an envelope, lick a postage stamp onto it (if they still make the kind you can affix your DNA onto) and label it with whatever his address is and put it in the mail, raising that metal red flag on the box.

Dear David, I would begin, thanks for reading from your diaries. Is it really that easy? To just steal from your former self? Is that all any of this really is? Socially acceptable theft?

And then I would sign the letter, forging someone else’s name, and then, in that small fit of espionage, try to make up a story that would convince him to introduce this third person, the real aspiring writer, to George Saunders.

Since, as you may have heard, he lives up the street. And Franzen is in Santa Cruz. And my neighbors invited him to bridge. But I don’t know how to play bridge. Just how to look at them and sometimes name them and on rare occaison invite people onto the one Nayyirah Waheed discovered.

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