San Francisco, California
September 22, 2000

Dear Readers,

Today’s letter is by Stacey Richter, who lives in Tucson, Arizona. Emily White, Stacey’s editor, says that she first thought of asking Stacey to send us an open letter “because of a story she wrote, which appeared in her short-story collection My Date With Satan (just out in paperback). The story was called ‘Rats Eat Cats,’ and its narrator is a young woman who aspires to be a cat lady. The story takes the form of a letter written to a grant committee. It’s a charming story in the midst of an intensely charming book. By ‘charming’ I mean the kind of book that casts a spell.”

Emily tracked Stacey down and asked her to write us something about current events in Tucson. Today’s letter is what Stacey sent. When Emily forwarded it to me, she included this caveat: “Stacey said she loved reading the site, but started to feel like everyone was so nice, or likable, she wanted to come off as mean, or unlikable.”

I’m not certain that Stacey succeeded in becoming unlikable. I find that I still like her. Her letter must have bathed me with her alpha scent, or something.

I haven’t published a writing-back-to-the-writers letter this week, like Mary Rogan’s response to John Hodgman, from last week. I thought instead that I would include this anecdote, about reading the print-it-yourself version of Open Letters on the road. It comes from an email that I received this week from a subscriber named Adam Selzer, who lives in Portland, Oregon:

Last night, after having one of those stereotypical ’50′s nights of trading off playing records with a friend (which is a highly underrated form of leisure today) we decided to take a walk to a local bar for a beer. A few times earlier in the evening, subjects in our conversation had somehow reminded me of various open letters. It had happened more than a couple of times, so when we left, I grabbed my copy of last week’s issue and decided it would be fun or interesting to read it during our pilgrimage toward the bar.

I won’t tell you which letter I was reading, because it really doesn’t matter, but I ended up reading a couple of sentences at a time, during the few seconds that each porch light made it possible to make out the words. Finally, at a house on a corner, I stopped and decided to finish the whole thing. Every couple of sentences, I kept looking at the front door, afraid the occupant of the house might come out and ask what the fuck was going on.

Adam’s story provides a compelling argument for subscribing to the portable weekly version of Open Letters (try reading off a computer screen while you walk through the streets of Portland). Here is another. If Adam and I have convinced you, please proceed to this page, and sign up for your free subscription. Your first issue will arrive on Sunday, and soon you will be walking and reading, too.

Yours truly,

Paul Tough