My letter to James Tate

I've mentioned my dumb letter to James Tate. Well, I'm publishing it here.

There are a few things about James Tate. He was born in the same year as my mother, who is also a writer. His father died in World War II, my grandfather fought in that war. And my grandfather is the writer who's letters inspired the letter-writing dance of this year. And all these letters of his that I've been drinking in, were written to my mother.

It's non-linear, but it's fun for me to turn over and over in my mind.


June 13, 2008

Dear James Tate,

I'm writing one letter a day for a year. This is the exercise I've devised to celebrate the lost art of letter writing and to get my brain tumbling forward.

That's the background. The fun part is that each day it becomes obvious to whom I should write. It's 11:46 and I'm staring at your book, "Return to the City of White Donkeys" at my bedside. I LOVE THIS BOOK! I've loved it for a few years, since I got it as a gift from the bass player in my old band, as he thought my roommate, who is a poet, would like it. (This is getting to be a long story.) Anyway, I stole it when I moved out. Or maybe 'claimed' it - is a better way of putting it. But it's a treasure. I use it like I use only the most special things. You see, the most special things are the only things that can truly do the trick.

One poem, maybe two - when I need to dial in. My mother gave me a music box (you turn the crank) that plays Beautiful Dreamer - when I was 8. That's a special relic as well.

Anyway, this goes on - thank you. I really love the book.

Best, Erika