Dear Greer (poetic, huh?)
This letter is written upon wrinkled paper, which (as you are an English major), you will realize is symbolic of suffering and hardship. From having gotten to know me you will recall that I am never a whiner so I will let the paper rather than the ink bear what ill tidings are to be borne. You may well ask why I have devoted the introduction of this epistle to such trivia. As in conversation, I find it necessary to fill the air with something while I think of something worthwhile to say. While you write “redundant” over the second “something” in typical gung-ho English major fashion, I will try to find something worthy enough in content and syntax to place before your well-read, though brown, eyes.
Not having succeeded in that undertaking, I will, being forced, continue amid trivialities and redundancies. How are you? I am fine. (The latter is a comment rather than an answer.) My present residence is in Carlin, Nevada (as a glance at the envelope, also wrinkled, will verify—redundancies are tricky) and I receive my mail at P.O. Box 835. May I say that I had a very pointed reason for mentioning the fact?
Out of fear that you will say within someone’s hearing that this letter is much bubble bath, as indeed its first two paragraphs are, I will turn to serious considerations. I long to have the outpourings of your keen mind and kind heart splashed upon my untidy mind (see above) like cool water in the sweating face of a Nevada summer laborer. In other, less revealing words, my first order of business is to insist that you write me a letter. I will even, in consideration of your talent, pay you by the word in typical professional fashion.
I dedicated this summer to ridding myself of fecund thoughts and to the corralling of vagrant impulses, to secluded study and spiritual growth. I’ve had my preliminary interview and I will be leaving on my mission in September. I have departed into the desert to prepare for my calling, to live with the wild beasts and eat locusts and honey. Please realize that your letters will be a tremendous help to me. I think of you often.
Memory, hither come,
And tune your merry notes;
And, while upon the wind
Your music floats,
I’ll pour upon the stream
Where sighing lovers dream,
And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass.