Interlude: Second Letter and Brief Sketch of the Girl.

Dear Mr. Salinger,

I am so lonely. There is a south facing window in my bedroom and the air comes in and it feels cold. I have never felt so terrible in all my life. I wanted to begin my letter differently, but these are simply the compelling things on my mind right now.

What does it take to do complex, beautiful things? You have lived a a strange dissected life and the little I know of it only makes me lonelier and more depressed. I've always wanted to be a journalist, and to tell stories as you do. I wonder if I am foolish to want a man's life who seems so angry and alone. Even more foolish of me - I imagine I would feel better if I did. What is writing but the desire to be elsewhere - that thing which doesn't exist.

You should know I realize how spoiled I must sound. Or would sound if you knew the facts. I do have great parents, and two unspeakably intelligent and beautiful sibilings. I have been many places and experienced so much genius that others can barely believe I am only seventeen years old. But it's there. This terrible loneliness, repeating itself - even in times when I feel simply whole and happy. And there are many of those times too.

There were 34 letters between Valentina and Salinger. At first I found it impossible to write as her. After some time, this became easier. Since history is everything, I gave her history. Too much of it sometimes. I envisioned her lovers, her terrors, her questioning. This part was exhausting, but she gave me everything in return. His words, his attention.

I grew up in a small town, and was lucky to escape with a few good books in my head. She grew up in Paris and played the piano. Her parents were magicians and musicians - mine: teachers, gamblers, maniacs. She knew more of the Giants of Modernism than I ever will. She spoke wildly of art, philosophy, science. I simply craved, desperately, to cope with art - to be large, to be friend and confidant to the one giant who still lived. I was a Gollum and thirsty for what ever. Valentina was only strong, not afraid of men or change.

Each week, Valentina sent a new letter, sealed every time in a bright red envelope. Each letter composed by hand, with enormous effort, in the most loopy, girlish style I could. That part was exhausting, too.

It took ten weeks to get Salinger to respond.

"Dear Mr. Salinger," began the tenth letter, as did the others before and after. "In less than one week I shall graduate from school. I am writing for your advice this time."

***

I am publishing this now because I am feeling hostile. This story has not evolved in nearly two months now and I feel as if if I don't set some things down it might just evaporate. This is not how I pictured you receiving any of this story. It feels atrophic but necessary to go on this way. I have no patience or time.

My promise: More letters soon and an ending, eventually.