JOHN KISSINGER CHANNELS CHEYENNE GRIGSBY COMPLAINING TO HER AUTHOR

Dear John (and I mean that in a kinder, more positive sense of the phrase J)

Don’t even pretend to be surprised at getting this letter from me. Sure, you’re the “author” of my books, but you’re not the only one who writes.

Since you and I have successfully navigated Soddy-Daisy Angel, Sanguinary Angel, and other books, I thought this would be a good time for you and I to have a little talk (of course, the written word is the only way you and I can ever talk, isn’t it? I take a certain amount of pride in that) about how you’ve brought me along this creative path. So pour yourself an IPA, settle back, and read.

First, some petty complaints.

John, I can’t over-emphasize how much I really liked being tall in the books’ early versions. It gave me a sense of superiority and—dare I say it?—stature among my peers. I really resented your decision to make me shorter, for one sole and silly reason: making it easier for me to rest my head on Wayne’s shoulder during our slow dance on that first Saturday night date. You could have found some other way to let me slow-dance cuddle with Wayne but still keep me tall, even if that made me taller than him. I mean, gheez-louise, John: I really love Wayne but I’m already younger and less experienced than him; do I have to be shorter than him, too? (Oh well, I have recourse to high-heels to make up the difference, so I may have the last laugh, anyway.)

I like the idea of being half Romani/Gypsy, but you insisted on making me blonde, which waters down the ambience. It also subjects me to endless comments of how unlikely that mix would be, genetically speaking. Making my biological father Norwegian, cute though the idea might be, sounds like a desperation move to me.

Also, I would be happier with larger breasts. You gave normal-sized breasts to Wayne’s exes, RueAnn and Annie, and they are both sideshows compared to me. Since I already have the age-gap thing to overcome with Wayne, you could at least give me a few attributes at least the equal of my most recent competitors. I know, I know, you had to give me smaller breasts to make the “have a heart” chapter work, when Wayne can feel my heartbeat through our embrace; but in my view, this points out one flaw in how you created me: you let one particular factor, in a limited time and place, determine something that stays with me for the rest of my (literary) life.

And this is all because you insist on using songs to build my character and to create my scenes.

I mean, the only reason I now have “small girls” is because you took one line from an Alison Krauss song as inspiration for an entire chapter. That one line required my heartbeat to be perceptible during an embrace; the next thing I know, I have small, “trim figure” breasts, for no better reason than to make that chapter work. Doesn’t seem fair to me. Do you know what it is like for a girl to go into a store and rummage among the smallest bra sizes in stock? Of course you don’t. (Or do you? I’ve been hearing some strange things about you, John.)

You may have been charmed by the Beatles singing, “Well she was just seventeen, and you know what I mean,” and therefore you made me seventeen when I met Wayne. But that ethereal basis raises a series of difficult questions and problems for me to work through. Would it have been so hard for you to just make me eighteen in the first place? For one thing, Wayne and I wouldn’t have to wait until I turned eighteen to have sex, just to keep Nashville happy.

And another thing: eight previous sexual partners? Really? Come on, John; when the series opens, I’ve only been sexually active for two years or so. Fred Rogers leers through his TV smile and says, “Can you spell the word slut?” I mean, it wasn’t like that at all. The first and second guys were only there to get virginity out of the way (and yes, I needed two times and two guys, since the first time was its own fiasco.) Then, I needed an older guy (and by that, I mean a senior to my sophomore, so don’t go all Freudian on me) to demonstrate that my virginity was really gone (it’s not like we girls have a built-in v-meter to measure the question) and to show me at least a little of what sex was like. The fourth guy lasted a few months, mostly to give myself a steady partner who could move my vagina past the hurting/burning stage and closer to the intercourse I’d always read about and imagined.

Then came Jimmy (pun intended, of course) and even though I knew he wasn’t going to be my forever, he was the kind of lover I needed for the next year or so. And yeah, I had two one-nighters with other guys, and one affair cheating on Jimmy that lasted a couple of weeks. So I guess I was something of a slut by some standards, but I paid for it by living in near-constant fear of getting pregnant and not knowing who the father was, or that we all were trading STD’s back and forth.

And now, when I’m finally in love with Wayne (who is my forever) for weeks and months and haven’t spread my legs for him even once, that should count for something. Sure, there were eight before him (and thank you, Amanda, for arguing John down from even more), but it didn’t really seem like eight, it seemed more like Wayne’s original guess of three--with some appetizers and side-dishes. But did you have to tell the whole fricking world? Your daughters were ready to think the worst of me anyway, without that topic coming up. You may like having loose ends from one book that can become plot points for the next book, but that convenience for you is not worth having the whole world know how many times I’ve let a guy “go all the way,” as you 60’s people so quaintly put it. Especially because, truth be told, none of them went all the way, only Wayne will do that, come August.

And another thing: it isn’t fair of you to get Wayne all interested in me and committed to me, when you know damn well I’ll be leaving the planet soon. Yeah, I know all about your experience with a long-distance relationship, you in Ohio and Nona in Pennsylvania. But John, you were still within driving distance of each other, you could see each other on weekends. That’s lightyears away from sending me to Alpha Centauri or wherever, where I can’t see Wayne, much less touch him, for months at a time. Of all your goof-ups, this must be one of the biggest, although I suppose it could have been worse: you could have sent me off to save the galaxy before my eighteenth birthday.

(Please note: I haven’t also complained about you setting me up to chase a local serial killer; maybe later. J)

Not all my comments are negative.

I appreciate how you made me the one who finds Ejenje, doubtless making me the only person to discover an extraterrestrial hiding in a Tennessee cave. Also, you’ve integrated me closely with his life and mission here on Earth, even though I’m sometimes overwhelmed by the responsibility, me just being a high school student and all. Still, I love playing a direct supportive role for his mission, support that includes physical contact like holding his hand, and intellectual contact by making me his primary source for earth information. I can also be his protector from his enemies as well as his friends. I admit it: my relationship with Ejenje helps me move through my own teen-age life transitions, solidifying my gains in sophistication over my contemporaries. So I think you got that one right. I’m just not sure we need to keep reassuring Wayne every few pages that nothing prurient is going on between Ejenje and me, just because he occasionally holds my hand: once and done should be enough.

Still, if you could see your way clear to waving you editorial wand and giving me additional height or larger cup size, you’d have my undying gratitude. Which, of course, you already have, by writing me into existence.

All Our Best

Cheyenne