Most of you probably didn't realize that I've been operating Syntax of Things for two years now as a rather uncleaver ruse, simply dangling the bait out there in the literary pond hoping to land the really big fish, wanting nothing more than to wake up one morning, open up the gmail account, and read something like this:
Dear Syntax of Things, The other day I was sitting on the porch with my good friend Nelle and while we were finishing our second glass of sweet tea she mentioned that she had been looking around the world wide web and came across this page run by a kid from Atmore. She couldn't believe it. Atmore, she told me. I didn't know people could even read down there. I'm sure you know who Nelle is. Most know her as Harper, the woman who wrote that famous book. Well, Nelle wanted me to tell you that she's written a letter and she wants you to post it on your webpage. I'll send more details later. --Signed, Friend of Nelle.
After recovering from the shock, I'd prepare my response to Nelle. I'd have to
explain to her that I've never called her book an overrated Southern
classic. I'd have to promise that I would read it again for the first
time since 9th Grade, and this time I would resist the urge to throw it
under the bed where it could entertain my half-read copy of Jane Eyre.
I'd also explain that despite the fact that I've laughed--more than
once--at her hometown of Monroeville's claim that it is Alabama's Literary Capital, that if one were to drive about 60 or so miles to the southwest and not blink when you see the city limits of Fairhope, Alabama,
then you'd find the real literary capital of the state, that I still
repect Monroeville for being a city that served as a pit stop on dozens
of occasions when the family drove from Atmore to Selma to see the
grandparents. To be sure, I would explain that like her I had a hard time being
a book reader in the small town of Atmore, a town I'm sure she's
familiar with, it being a mere hour's drive to the south of where she
lives, about halfway between Monroeville and the beautiful beaches of
Pensacola. But oddly enough, books were the reason I ended up living in Atmore in
the first place. My dad, an electrician, took a job wiring the city's
library, a library that had a few books that kept me entertained in
high school: Kerouac's On the Road; The Complete Oscar Wilde.
Later, I'd tell her about the summer I helped my dad rewire the
Monroeville library, right there on that famous town square. But I
never saw her. Wouldn't have known if I did. I was more interested in
the backwoods carpenter who ate sardines and tomatoes for lunch and who
seemed to know every way to misuse the English language. Or my other
fond memory of Monroeville: watching a kid about three times my size
hit a homerun off of me that I think is still orbiting Earth.
It would have been amazing. Harper Lee and me, a chat about south Alabama and reading and sardines and tomatoes.
Then along came Oprah and her book-loving self, wielding that power that only Oprah can wield. Do you really need more, Oprah? Is it necessary to squash the dreams of a litblogger? Can you sleep at night knowing that I'll have to keep operating this blog hoping that some other reclusive writer will be snagged on my hook? More reason to resent you, Oprah. More reason to wish a hundred James Frey's on your Reading Club.
Anyway, I'm sure you know by now that Oprah got the letter. If you go here and squint you can read it.
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