Dear
Miss Spears,
This morning, I saw your cover spread in what I thought
was the goddam Times Magazine. Later, my major domo informed
me that I was actually reading Rolling Stone, which explains
why it seemed like William Safire devoted so goddam much
of this week’s column to some phony named "Lil’
Kim."
I realize you have a bright future as a singer of popular
tunes. However, I am convinced that you are, above all else,
a writer. I recognized it the second I saw your bare
midriff in that patriotic cover photo: You have what William
Shawn used to call the "sensual, milky-toned abdomen
of an authoress." One need only listen to your self-penned
"Dear Diary":
Dear Diary/Today
I saw a boy/And I wondered if he noticed me/He took
my breath away/Dear Diary/I can’t get him off my
mind/And it scares me/’Cause I’ve never felt
this way.
Too many writers
care more about making a sentence sound good than
they do about speaking the truth. They are all
prostitutes. You, on the other hand, are innocent
as hell. I see the germs of a great novel in those lines:
The boy appeals to you because he is extremely sensitive,
almost fragile. He is alarmingly intelligent, yet also
innocent. He is eighty-one years old and a writer.
All you need is some direction, which I will happily provide.
To complete your first book, you will need to stay with
me for, at the minimum, one year in Cornish, New
Hampshire, at the house I share with my attorneys. After
you sign my lifetime confidentiality agreement, we shall
produce this novel in my study, perched at the Olivetti,
with you on my lap, taking frequent breaks for the study
of homeopathy.
Sincerely,
P.S. Consider this my entry in the "Oops!…I
Won Britney’s Bustier Sweepstakes" as described
in Rolling Stone. (I cannot send in my address on a 3X5
card, as requested. If I do, I’m sure I’ll have
goddam Jann Wenner sleeping in my porch hammock.) Should
I win, you can bring, or perhaps wear, my prize when you
come to Cornish.
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