Letter To a Colleague

January 1st 2022

Dear Mr. Salinger,

I apologise, sincerely, in advance for what you’re about to read.

I have put my heart, soul, and a considerable amount of time into this; my first collection of short stories.

This is my first work to be published, so I apologise for what may be somewhat unpolished or lacking of considerable depth. But I’m sure you can understand the sudden urge to rush one’s work to the printing press.

Regardless, I am now published.

I, Roald McMurry, am a published author.

I write it the second time if only to satisfy my own gluttony.

Regardless, I am published – part of a secretive club of authors, memoirists, and storytellers. I have found, and quite quickly, in fact, that once inside said club one hardly finds themselves rubbing shoulders with Joyce, Hemingway, or even you, Mr. Salinger. But I’m certainly in the same room. As some might say, I have found my foot (a size ten and two-thirds U.S in most manufacturers’ dress shoes and loafers) in the proverbial door. Maybe we will share a cab some time, Mr. Salinger. I joke about an authorial club, but as far as I am aware, no such club really exists in the physical, brick and mortar sense of the word.

If you know of any club, or have the address or an email, I would be much indebted and gracious.

A published author, and at only twenty-four years!

I apologise, again, if I am beginning to drag on this fact, but it really is quite an achievement. You almost never see anyone at my age sauntering onto the scene in such a way. And certainly not at such a tender age. In literary terms, I am but a babe - where most would be still enduring their literary apprenticeships, I find myself at the peak. Only when one is at the precipice, looking over, does one realise how far they have come, and how far they have to fall. I doubt that I shall be falling anytime soon, Mr. Salinger. I plan to stay at considerable length at the peak, perhaps even take afternoon tea while I’m here.

I must admit, Mr. Salinger, that the life of an author isn’t entirely what I had it penned out to be. I am rarely (if not seldom) recognised on the streets, or pulled aside due to my likeness with the my portrait printed on the inside cover of my book. Which, may I add, was printed in full colour (I’m not one to cut corners when it comes to the quality of a final product). I am yet to have been asked to lecture at a single university. Not a single one. Although maybe my expectations may have been a tad high. It doesn’t need to be a Yale or Columbia postgrad course. It scarcely has to be Ivy League. Even a community college would suffice, along as they pay accommodation and air fare, that is. There are far fewer parties than I had imagined. Not even a lousy publishing party was to be held in my honour. Only a measly collection of semi-masturbatory emails of congratulations.

I do not write to you, Mr. Salinger, out of a need for sympathy. My plea is not that of an orphaned child, seeking comfort or a glass of cocoa by the fire, but instead out of a desire to share cordial stories and experiences akin to those with a long time collegiate classmate. Which, in many ways, we are. Although I do write of my struggles, they are merely my first experiences in that of the world of publishing. I am assured that the golden fruits of my labour shall begin to ripen sooner than later. Self-assured, that is. But still, even self-assurance is comfort enough for me.

Like yourself, Mr. Salinger, I grew up Jewish. That is to say, of Jewish blood, not in a Jewish household. My mother was Jewish, her father a rabbi - particularly well known and highly respected in the Jewish-Australian circles of Sydney’s eastern suburbs. My father, like your mother (I am led to believe) was non-Jewish, growing up in Australia to vaguely Scotch-Irish parents. He believed in keeping a truly Australian household. We did not visit a synagogue or practice Judaism, koshered meats were rarely (if ever, intentionally) bought, and for the longest time my mother claimed to be vegetarian as to avoid eating Christmas ham. Above all, we were forbidden from talking of our being Jewish to anyone, friends or otherwise. In the playground, my brother and I were called wogs, wops, or spicks, despite us not having a drop of Italian blood in us. Even when she fell ill and became bedridden, my mother urged us to not correct them and to not argue with our father, out of fear of what may occur. He had never beaten us – I must clarify this – he never once laid a hand on myself, or my brother or mother, and was not a monster, or a villain. Perhaps he was trying to protect us. In a perverse, ignorant way he was protecting us from what may have come. The treatment we could have received. Australia. The lucky country - deeply rooted in racism and bigotry.

I have taken a break from writing at this point, I have apparently tricked a fuse and set something off within myself. I was writing at quite a heated rate, Mr. Salinger. But I do not mean to make this a plea about anti-Semitism, although I am sure you have experienced worse. Was your childhood a religious one? I have read somewhere that you fought in the second world war. In France, if I’m not mistaken? That must have been a deeply enriching experience. Is this something you speak of often? I must say, I quite enjoyed ‘For Esme - With Love and Squalor’. It is a work with which I am deeply infatuated and return to quite often, when experiencing difficulty in my own writing.

Anyway, Mr. Salinger, I do not want to take too much of your time. Becoming aware of sounding garrulous, I shall leave you with one final sentiment. You are a writer, and I suppose colleague of sorts, to which I am greatly indebted. Your work is of the highest quality and you have surely surpassed all great writers of our time. Your work inspired and continues to inspire me. Each time I sit down to write, I do so with an imitation of your own voice (albeit a poor one) in my head. I hope one day we will find an address for this writer’s club (I’m lead to believe it may be on the Upper East Side, somewhere tucked away in the lower hundreds) and be able to sit down and share a drink.

With all respect and a great deal of honour,

Yours truly,

Matthew Smith-Arrenberg

P.S. Arrenberg - my mother’s maiden name - is something I have adopted since moving to New York. It comes with a great freedom to write.

P.P.S It has come to my attention, whilst trying to find an appropriate postal, residential, or email address, that you, Mr. Salinger, may in fact be dead. Upon not being able to find a liable address, I enquired with my own publisher who made it very clear to me (and in no uncertain terms) that you really are dead. Even with a quick, and somewhat obstinate Google search, I have found this to be true. If it is so, and I am trending to believe that it may be, I give my deepest condolences. To both yourself and your family, my deepest grievances. I cannot, personally, begin to come to terms with the news. You have always seemed so alive to me. When I pick up a copy of one of your books, you are there - even if only in my imagination, a rather spritely and unbelievably enthusiastic (almost annoyingly so at times) figure sitting across from my desk, or looking over my shoulder, impatiently waiting for me to finish. I suppose that it was moronic for me to not even consider the possibility that you could have died. Your writing always seemed so alive to me. So vivid. More so than anything I have ever read. So absolutely alive.

Today would have been your 102nd birthday.

Happy birthday, Mr. Salinger.