(Note: I list this in satire, though it's not totally satire but it's not meant to be taken very seriously either.)
Dear Jon, (can I call you Jon?)
Jesus. This is hard for me to do.
I love you. Well, that might be pushing it a tad. Remember when I said I would never read you, never like you, and refuse to fall into the Cult of Franzen? Ha ha ha. I'm sorry. I do take it back now. I tried to resist as much as I could.
Yeah, the first essay in How To Be Alone did it for me. But so did your essay on privacy. Sure, you're a little pretentious at times, but so am I. Look, we're a match made in heaven.
You can be honest with me, darling. You don't really need those black-rimmed glasses you hide behind, do you? I have to admit, however, they do look wonderful on you. Will you admit you're trying a little too hard to look like the Disheveled Writer? Oh, what am I saying!? I love your author photo on the back of your book. You have that scruffy, impatient look like the photographer has just rudely interrupted your afternoon of writing to take your photo and the look on your face says, "Come on, hurry up. I got another best-selling novel to write!"
Last night I was reading your essay, "Why Bother?" and I saw this:
Today's Baudelaires are hip-hop artists
What? Why are you doing this to me, dear Jon? As much as I love you and wish to grovel at your feet in old-fashioned disciple style, I had to put the book down and go to bed after I read this because you broke my heart. MY HEART! What are you doing giving the hip-hop artists of today such a compliment as calling them the Baudelaires of today? Did I miss something? Was this sarcasm that went over my head?? It wouldn't be the first time, mind you. Darling, there are no Baudelaires today. None. The only person who comes close to this is Patti Smith, and even then, she's more Rimbaud, you know?