Dear Elizabeth Gilbert
This is not a review of Eat Pray Love. This is a submission, a proclamation of admiration for a woman of unparalleled abilities. Like being shaken abruptly from a wonderful dream, it’s the acceptance of failure as a writer yet the extreme privilege to have witnessed a great one.
Please be warned of my shameless devotion. Though I must be clear that I am not a fan-potential-stalker.
Dear Elizabeth Gilbert,
I had to write that quickly in case I change my mind and add the “The” I was tempted to put earlier. THE Elizabeth Gilbert–It seems more fitting but in a way, more… patronizing bordering on insulting idolatry. I’ll stick with your given name then without any titles or fanatic articles attached to the front. It’s left for the rest of this “letter” to describe how much I revere you. It’s simple really, sort of similar to how you see your magnificent God–warm, helpful, and most especially, real. You are definitely my version of Him–with your witty comments and liquid words, painfully reminding me that I am a mere mortal writer. That my creativity comes in fleeting phases and jolted moments whereas yours is limitless. A supply of cleverness more than I could ever muster in a lifetime. I can only be so thankful that I was touched by the likes of you.
But though I wallow in my limitations, the impossibility of such lettered playfulness and gracefulness suddenly seems accessible. Your pages dripping with intelligence, charm, and humor makes this enviable talent real. It’s rare talent to string so much color and words together yet still remain surprisingly simple and straightforward.
Here I am so quick to judge you, barely past the cover of you book. I sit here, with over 400 pages left to be wistful about, already hoping, wishing, longing… but most of all admiring the writer I want but could never be. Sigh.