Dear Elizabeth Strout,

I have never written a fan letter. I’m not sure this even is a fan letter, although I am a huge fan of yours. In fact, whenever anyone asks me, who is your favorite writer? I always say Elizabeth Strout. True, I am also a fan of Curtis Sittenfeld’s and Jane Hamilton’s. I loved The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin and also Therapy by David Lodge, and I just read A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley for the first time and was incredibly moved. But in moments when I allow myself to fantasize about being a famous writer, being interviewed by Terry Gross about the book I’ve recently written (or books plural — why not? It’s a fantasy, right?) and she asks me: “Who is your favorite writer?” I always say, “Elizabeth Strout.“

Then, when Terry responds to my response with something like, “well, which is your favorite Elizabeth Strout book?” I can’t answer quickly or easily because I actually love all your books. I truly love them all. I think Olive Kittredge is amazing. I have actually stopped while reading Olive to urge myself: “Slow down! Savor don’t gorge,” as if chapters of your books were pieces of See’s Candy. I recommended Amy & Isabelle to my book club, so I would have an excuse to read it for the fourth or maybe fifth time. Now, just mentioning the title, I want to get it down from the shelf and start reading it again.

So maybe this is a fan letter.

Or maybe it’s a thank you note.

You see I just picked up My Name is Lucy Barton at the airport before boarding a flight. I started reading it, and I couldn’t put it down. Not to go to the bathroom, not to take a nap. It was the answer to a question I didn’t even know I was asking.

I guess I had been looking for something without fully realizing it — advice on how to be a writer — a guide, a parent, a teacher, a mentor. I was secretly hoping someone would come along and tell me what to do. And in this book, you did…

…Which is kind of crazy, because I actually have been working as a writer for the last twenty years, and some folks might even say I’ve been a successful one. I’ve written for many beloved TV shows. I’ve made a good living and been nominated for awards.

But it was never what I wanted. Since I was little, all I ever dreamed of being was a novelist. It’s why I went to a small liberal arts college in the Midwest where a bunch of famous writers had gone; it’s why I moved to New York City after college and got a job in the publishing business; It’s why every room in my house is filled with bookshelves, but there still isn’t enough space to contain all my books.

I wanted to be the kind of writer who wrote novels that people read over and over and loved so much they pressed them upon their friends and said: “you must read this book,” which is, of course, what I do with all of yours.

But even though I wanted to be that kind of writer, I never tried. My expectations for myself were so high, I was afraid.

I wanted it so much.

What if I couldn’t do it?

Then I lost one of my best friends to cancer. Her name was Barb Burg Schieffelin and she was fifty years old.

It was a brutal loss for me. Barb was a once in a lifetime friend. Though she lived in New York and I lived in L.A. (or maybe because of it!) Barb and I had only gotten closer over the years. We talked about everything: our hopes, our fears, our work, our husbands, our kids, our mutual love of books. She was really more than a friend to me: she was a sister and a role model; she was the parent I never had.

People always tell you not to take your life for granted. To live each day to the fullest and treat it like it could be your last. But we don’t do it. We don’t listen or embrace this truth because maybe we don’t really believe it. But now suddenly I did. And when I asked myself if today really were the last day of my life, would I be happy or satisfied with how I was filling it up, I knew the answer was not a resounding yes. Because even though I’d accomplished a lot and my days were jam-packed, I had never tried for my dream.

So I started writing a novel inspired by my friendship with Barb. It was no more excuses time. I set a goal for myself: one page a day. And by sticking with it and not giving up, I actually got to the end of a draft.

But it’s such a personal endeavor. It’s a novel but it’s a first novel, so of course much of it is true. And I have been plagued by questions, like did I go deep enough or was I so afraid to hurt the people I loved that I pulled back? And even though I did pull back at times, if this book were ever to be released into the world, would it still hurt the people I love?

But then here I am, reading along in My Name is Lucy Barton, and I get to the part where Lucy’s writing teacher tells her: “if you find yourself protecting anyone as you write this piece, remember this: You’re not doing it right.”

See. Right there: an answer to my question. And there is also the part where Lucy’s friend Jeremy tells her: “You must be ruthless, Lucy.”

I knew this was important advice. So important I even looked up the word ruthless in the dictionary. “RUTHLESS: having or showing no pity or compassion for others.”

And there’s just so much more in this book that spoke to me, like how Lucy takes herself “-secretly, secretly — very seriously” and how she learned if you simply do things they get done and how books made her feel less alone.

So thank you, Elizabeth, for writing your amazing books and for this one in particular. I came upon it precisely at the moment I needed it, which is such a wonderful gift. And now I must go back to my own writing. I promise to be ruthless.

Sincerely,

Gayle