It won't be long until my friend, David Sedaris, comes to town.  If you don't know who he is or aren't a fan, try substituting the name of a celebrated writer you'd love to meet, and you'll know how I feel.  I call him my friend because I’m inspired by his work, which is hilarious, sometimes dark, always focused on our humanity and absurdity, honestly observed.  I call him my friend because he’s lifted my thoughts and restored my faith, more than once, in the value of self-acceptance.  And I call him my friend because I wrote him a letter, and he wrote back.

I know many of us have had the chance to speak to a celebrity before, or someone we're in awe of for one reason or another.  When I do, normally I have nothing to say and hope I'm not gawking and try to act like I'm not blown away and wonder if it's rude not to act like I'm blown away, and by that time, they're gone. I’ve never once written a fan letter.

It's different with David.  I first met him outside what was The Met and I had the nerve to strike up a conversation, not about writing, which writers don’t really like talking about, but about something I figured he'd be comfortable with, something of the moment - menthol cigarettes.  Then, a few years later, when my husband and I were planning our first trip to Europe, I decided to write to him through his agent and ask his opinion, as a like-minded social oddball living in Paris, where we might go to have a good time.  That's when the letter with an actual return address in handwriting turned up in my mailbox.

It confirmed what I'd been thinking - that maybe getting a little older was turning me into someone who could take that "what've I got to lose?" attitude I'd employed here. Well at least when there was actually nothing at stake.  This turn of events, though, made me feel brave and successful about reaching out there and getting a little wave from someone I respect so much. If there'd been no letter?  C'est la vie.

Okay, there have been a few consequences since that correspondence.  Truly, I had a couple of friends who suggested I was a stalker when I came back from France with a photo of me taken by Mr. S's nameplate in the foyer of his apartment building.  And maybe I did cross the line when, recently, I wrote again and pointed out we were both going to be in Spokane in May and maybe we could hang out? I am certainly not counting on it.  I'll buy a ticket to his reading like everyone else. But it felt good to do what I was moved to do, and to set in motion that experience of sweet anticipation I felt throughout much of my life. Remember?  Going to your mailbox, flipping through the bills, and finding - or at least knowing there’s a chance of finding - an actual personal communication, addressed with a pen, held secret inside an envelope, that physically traveled from another place to your home – a letter with your name on it, that no one else can open, written in the hand of a friend.