dear mr. fante,

02Apr08

i’ve only written one fan letter once and that was to mr. mel brooks.   growing up in the lalaland of celebrity, i’ve become desensitized to the idea of being “a fan.” so i’m probably an awful fan. because i don’t give an abundance of adulance to those whom i admire.

and plus…you’re dead. 

so this practice may seem futile, but i think will be cathartic.

mr. edren s. passed on your name when i mentioned i love reading depressing novels.  the stuff of romance and happiness is not my cup of tea.  instead i like to read about heartache, disappointment, and anguish.  i suppose i never grew out of that teen angst phase.  salinger, fitzgerald, and murakami are in my library of re-read novels.  why do i love these odd, depressing works of words?  perhaps it’s because my soul longs to be able to pen something as beautiful.  there is beauty in words so sad.  and i wrack my brain trying to create my own work of poignant prose.

i wander the streets of los angeles and picture my footsteps matching yours.  driving down bunker hill, i breathe in deeply wondering if i can inherit the air that you once walked through.  trying to find inspiration in the same haunts, but languishing in the fact that i will have to simply find my own muse. 

when i was in high school i thought i’d grow up to be a writer.  penning awful love sonnets about a dream i knew nothing about. ms thomas, my favorite teacher, praised my essays and i endlessly journaled about nothing.  “good writing” she explained, “comes from life experience.” at sixteen, i barely had any.  what would i write about at sixteen?  playing junior varsity basketball? living in the shadow of my cousin who was a “popular kid”? drinking orange juice and vodka every morning before class? 

that simply wouldn’t do.

so i put that dream away. went to school. learned some things. found passion. burned out. elevated minds. burned my face in my own tears. slept away depression. graduated. became a cog in a corporate machine. quit. went back to school. took up writing again.

and now, i find myself writing a letter to a dead man who inspires me to write my own….something, anything, and everything.  how did i find myself back to square one.  ms. thomas was  right.  good writing comes from experience.  i’ve been able to get a couple years on me. i may not live as rough a life as you mr. fante, but i can only hope to write my own story.

thank you for the inspiration,

an appreciative admirer in los angeles

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