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Last night I discovered a shoe box in my office closet. Tucked high up on a corner shelf, its lid covered in a thick layer of dust, the box contained about five years’ worth of written correspondence — school notes passed from friend to friend, college acceptance letters, greeting cards for every occasion, some from one-time BFFs I now barely remember.
I pulled the box out and perused its contents, wondering why the hell I kept so much old stuff, while simultaneously refusing to throw any of it away.
Then I saw it, there at the bottom: a letter from Marsha DeFilippo, Assistant to Stephen King.
I was a 16-year-old high school student living in Dorchester, Massachusetts when I wrote a letter to Mr. King. And although I have no recollection of what my missive said, it undoubtedly mentioned that I was his biggest fan (though not in an Annie Wilkes kind of way) and requested his advice on becoming an author.
Months later, I received a reply:
