When I was a child, I had no inkling about life’s treacherous network of dark, foreboding tunnels, careless miscalculation and a hesitant pause. Even now at 36, a slip of tongue or wrong twist in a sentence could bead cold sweats on my forehead.
But the hesitation you feel in Coming Home is ridiculous, you were born with a pencil in your mouth, a piece of paper in your hand. A year of leaving your ardent fans in the cold is hardly polite, don’t you think?
I would recognise your sentences with my eyes shut, mind asleep.
Neighbourhood changes, Frank. People change too. But in pursuit of writing, you have always been my candle in the night.
This is the hardest letter I have to write, years without practice have killed the confidence. The typing labored, my hesitance apparent. I miss the day when I write for no one. No editors, no deadline, no one telling me what to do.
I would sit with you on a bench in a park without you asking me to, but what I want most is for us to write again just like our old days. Like Helene and Frank in 84 Charing Cross Road. Sadly we are not corresponding from London to New York, but I love KL and Umbai all the same.
What shall we talk about this evening, Frank?