A true writing story

Many years ago when I was pub­lish­ing, but still work­ing as a librar­i­an, I received a let­ter from a girl, telling me she enjoyed my books. She indi­cat­ed she was twelve years old. This, how­ev­er, was no ordi­nary let­ter. I had nev­er received such a beau­ti­ful­ly craft­ed let­ter, from a young or old read­er. Quite aston­ish­ing, it was fas­ci­nat­ing with won­der­ful descrip­tions and insights. I replied, and anoth­er let­ter came, equal­ly good. A third. She was a fab­u­lous writer.

In my response, I asked how she became such a good writer. She explained that her par­ents were wealthy, and trav­eled all over Europe. Though vir­tu­al­ly un-schooled, when­ev­er she moved to a new city, she sought out an Eng­lish lan­guage library, and read every­thing and any­thing. I believe read­ing was her only edu­ca­tion. Per­haps her only social exis­tence, oth­er than her family. 

More­over, her last let­ter (for the first time) had an address. She was liv­ing only a few miles away from the library where I worked! I said I would like to meet her. Con­tact and per­mis­sion from her par­ents was grant­ed, and she showed up (alone) one after­noon in my office. 

It was a painful hour. She was shy, tongue tied and incapable—try as I might—to engage in any real conversation. 

Off she went. The next exchange of letters—hers as good as ever—informed me that she and her fam­i­ly were mov­ing to Ohio, where her father got a job, and where they would final­ly set­tle. Most of all she was excit­ed, because she would final­ly be going to school, high school. 

That next fall, a few more let­ters came. How­ev­er, some­thing had hap­pened. The qual­i­ty of her writ­ing dis­in­te­grat­ed rapid­ly. They became full of jar­gon, slang, and clichés. Unin­ter­est­ing. Her lit­er­ary gifts had evap­o­rat­ed. I did respond, but her let­ters final­ly stopped, and I nev­er heard from her again.

Did she become a writer? I don’t know.