I stopped because I recognized the handwriting.I flipped to the next page to be sure, but the letter was incomplete and unsigned.Cold trickled down my spine.
It was Vivienne’s handwriting.
She had written me a letter.
I went back to the first page and considered it again.The stationery said ROCK ON INN at the top, and Vivienne had dated the letter for Thursday—the day she’d approached me at the conference.The day she’d died.I carried the letter into the servants’ dining room and dropped into a seat.And then, for several seconds, I stared at the page of script, not seeing it.
Should I read it?Throw it away?Burn it?
But this was only a copy; the sheriff had the original.And she wanted my opinion.
And who was I kidding, anyway?
Dear Dashiell,
I should sayDash, I suppose, because you’ve corrected me enough times, but I love the name Dashiell, and I think it is particularly fitting for you.I hope you’ll pardon me this small indulgence.
You may wonder why I’m writing to you.I find myself at loose ends, in a way.I am about to embark on a dangerous course, and for the first time in many years, I feel the need of someone to confide in.This letter is something of a failsafe; I hope, should the worst happen to me, it will make its way to you, because I know you, and I know you will do what needs to be done.
Do you find it strange that I’ve chosen you and not the sheriff?Or that I would write to you at all?I hope not.I hope that you feel, as I do, a sort of kinship.We have a great deal in common, although it may not please you to hear it.We are both intuitive and analytical.We share a love of writing—and if I may flatter both of us—we have a talent for it.We are inveterate snoops, to borrow a word the former sheriff preferred—and, to the chagrin of professional law enforcement everywhere, we are unbearably good at what we do.There’s something a tad grotesque in saying that you are the child I never had, and I would never subject you to it.But I do feel that I understand you.And, as you have proven, you understand me.To your credit and my detriment, as it turned out.
If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to suggest we share some not-so-admirable traits as well.We are difficult people, in our own ways.We are obsessive.We are driven.And we are ambitious.Traits of genius, I’m tempted to say, but considering the trajectory of my life, events seem to have proven the contrary—although Ihopethat the next few days may bring a change in fortune.They say there are no second acts, but perhaps, in my case, I may craft for myself a third.
I want to congratulate you on your success withA Work in Progress.It’s a wonderful book.Incisive, clear-eyed, and yet somehow gentle.It’s not a book I could write; maybe that gives you some comfort, knowing that there is, in that way, a fundamental difference between us.But it is a book that I am glad exists in the world.
At the risk of overstepping, I hope you’ll permit me a moment to offer you some advice—a few bits of wisdom I have accumulated over the years in a profession that is neither gentle nor necessarily clear-eyed.
You have struck gold with your first book, and it’s to your good fortune, I believe, that you self-published it, because this gives you a degree of freedom I never had.I imagine that in the future, you will find no shortage of offers and opportunities.If I may, I’d like to suggest that you be wary.One phrase that comes to mind is “the golden handcuffs.”And the other is “the baited hook.”
Writing is a craft and an art.Publishing is a business.
I think you will find—hopefully, forewarned by this letter—that business abhors a risk.There will be plenty of people who assure you that they can grow your career and make you money.They will not tell you the cost.
The cost, Dashiell, is steep.It might be everything.Someone once said that when you choose to work with a publisher, it might be the last choice you ever make.There is some truth to that.A publisher, should you choose to work with one, will want you to produce a product they can sell.This is only fair, since they are a business.The problem is that you, Dashiell, are not a product.And the danger is that you will let yourself—and your writing—become one.The pressure will be to produce more.And to produce more of the same.And perhaps this will satisfy you, but I believe, from what I know of you, that you will find what it means is being less of yourself every time you write.
And this isn’t only true about the publishing industry.I know little about self-publishing—perhaps, if this weekend goes as I plan, you’ll be generous enough to teach me.But Idoknow something about readers.And I think you will find that your readers, in their own way, will exert a similar pressure.Not out of any malice; rather, out of love.But it is equally dangerous, and as much a threat to your art as any marketing team.
Everyone must choose who they are going to be.
Perhaps it is too great an irony for me to be the one to say this.Or perhaps it is fitting; I can’t tell.Regardless, it is true.The beauty of writing—the beauty of art—is that it lets us be more human.It enriches our lives.It magnifies our experience of the world, connects us with other minds, reveals to us those parts of ourselves we do not fully understand.You can choose to be the kind of writer who makes things that you care about, things that you are passionate about, things that are meaningful to you.Or you can choose to be the kind of writer who peddles widgets.It is all too easy to let the lure of success and respect and prestige lead us away from the kind of person we think we are, the person we want to be.
As I mentioned above, I am aware, here, of the irony.But perhaps you will simply consider that, in this case, I speak from experience.Is it too much for me to say that I hope, for my sake as a reader, you will continue to write the things that you love?Because the world is a better place for it.
Enough of that; you didn’t ask for my advice.
To the matter at hand:
In the event that this letter does reach you, you should know that I made a mistake many years ago in one of my investigations.I plan to rectify this by—
And that was where the letter ended.
I stared at it in disbelief.
A page and a half of unsolicited advice—about not being a sell-out, of all things—and then she stopped before she wrote down anything that could actually help me.
“Are you freaking kidding me?”I said to the empty room.
I scanned the letter again, looking for something—anything—that might hint at what Vivienne had planned.But all I found was the same trite advice about, what?Not letting success change you?Writing from the heart?It was the kind of thing amateur blogs were made of.
