I should be doing what I always do before I speak: eat. Nap. Shower. Instead, may I confess to you what I’ve been doing since I checked in? Watching videos of your events. Not to sound like a total creeper.
You do the same thing I do, Simone: You give your readers a good show. I have to say, if I met you as your audience member, I’d be too bashful to approach you. I might just be able to hand you a book to be signed and stammer my thanks. Because as gorgeous as you were theother night in your casual wear, and you must know you are beautiful, in these videos you are an absolute goddess. The heels. The makeup. The red clothes. Jesus.
And you are good. You’re charming and funny and so, so smart. I knew this the other night from dinner. But at the mic you turn it up to eleven.
I have been wondering many things, playing the writer’s favorite game: What If.
What if your bravura performance is a kind of wall? Do you ever feel as I do, that our public personae keep us safe but also lock us in? What if you let me into your blockade—as you did a bit the other night—and I do the same?
What if you are as tired as I am of wasting hotel rooms? What if you were here with me now, putting this one to use as God intended? (By which I mean I would feed you expensive snacks from the minibar, what did you think I meant?)
What if I look up from a podium at an event, see you, and think, as I did before:It’s you.
What if I find you when my tour is over and take you for a walk, and if your book is still being stubborn, we brainstorm together? I know you said you were reluctant to share. But what if I can persuade you to accept my assistance? What if I can give you that?
Because what if I can help bring another Simone Vetiver novel into the world? What if I could make that kind of lasting contribution, not only to the literary pantheon, but to you?
I’m so far out on a limb here. But I have so rarely felt the connection I experienced with you. What if we are the keys to each other’s prisons of solitude?
There’s also this: What if you’re reading this with horror or dismay? If that’s the case, I’ll step into the wings, after bowing in your direction and giving thanks. Thank you for your company the other night, for coming to my reading. For your books and for being you.
Take that pen from your braid, my dear, chase down that Muse of yours, andwrite.
X William
From: Sam Vetiver
To: William Corwyn
Date: August 11
Time: 10:49 p.m.
Dear William,
Thank you for your lovely email. I too was wondering some things. How your tour was going. Whether I’d imagined dinner the other night. Are you actually real. Things like that.
How was your reading? You don’t need to answer. I know you wowed them.So please answer this question: What is in your minibar? And what is the one thing you could do for me in a hotel room that would completely hypnotize me? (Hint: It’s probably not what you think.)
I feel shy about some of the other things you said, not because I don’t agree with them but because I want so badly to. I’ve been divorced about a year, and the only men available to date have been guys who have weirdly shaped heads, are carrying large fish, have an overly robust attachment to golf, and are completely unable to spell or use grammar. The fact that you exist gives me both pause and hope. You do exist, don’t you?
My turn. What if I came to one of your events this week? NOT that I am procrastinating in any way, willing to undertake ANY evasive maneuver that would allow me to escape this hellish Gold Rush novelscape I find myself trapped in, of course not, why would you say that? (And thank you for your offer to help... It’s really kind of you. I will think about it!)
What if half the things you said in your email are true? What happens then? Hypothetical questions. What if: The fiction writer’s favorite. But it’s the game we play to find the right story.
XO Sam
From: William Corwyn
To: Sam Vetiver
Date: August 12
Time: 12:13 a.m.
Simone,
Tonight’s audience was pure sugar. Retired librarians in purple hats and red dresses, more cozy mystery gals than William Corwyn readers, but good sports and full of wit and vim. Also wine. They plied me. I’m pretty lit. It’s lucky I made it back to the hotel.
