A letter

A letter from Irene C (the "fake" Irene, herein to be referred to as IC), to Irene P (IP, or me, the real Irene, the mistress of this blog).

Dear IP,

Stop trying to make me into a whore. Based on some old-fashioned views you've suddenly acquired of karma and morality, you've chosen to take the story of your fantasy alter-ego who lives in a place where dreams, oddly enough, really do come true, and turned it into some sort of moralistic bedtime story for Republicans.

The truth is, even though I'm not "real," by creating me and by writing my story (which, up to now, has been exciting, interesting, and full of love and happiness) you've started something magical, which you're now trying to corrupt by making me into some sort of low-down dirty skank.

Quit it.

You are more than welcome to try to make Stewart Copeland love you in your "reality." You've had two opportunities in the real world where you met Mr. Copeland, and you may have squandered them like so many magic beans - but that has nothing to do with me. Stop wasting your time on what you consider to be my "crimes" or by coming up with punishment for us, and concentrate on your own situation. Those were golden opportunities, chances for you to make your fantasies come true (or at least give him your phone number or email address). Your inability to fashion a relationship of any kind with this man who you so admire - a relationship, a friendship, maybe he might have recognized you the second time you met if you'd been more interesting during that first fateful encounter - is your own failure, and you tried to combat this failure by creating me, the "you" you're too afraid to be.

Stop your whining about not knowing what to write next. It doesn't matter what you "write" next. Once started, fantasies take on lives of their own. You, a lifelong reader of science fiction and Tom Robbins (Jasper Fforde too), should know that by now. We're happy: we don't need you to show us the right way. We don't need you to put your bourgeois stink on us.

Look, IC, I've heard you sing and play the flute and even, though not lately, attempt to play the drums. Your imagination, and as recently as ten years ago, possibly your chest, is probably your best asset. The time has come to write something truly interesting, something magical and beyond your powers to believe could really happen to someone like you. The limits that you set for yourself are the only ones that stop you from accomplishing your dreams.

In seven days, the real Stewart Copeland will be signing his book at Amoeba in Hollywood. Figure out how to make an impression on him. Say what's in your heart. It's time to be fearless. It may not be the love affair you imagined for me, but any connection is better than none. Stop worrying about if he thinks his fans are crazy, if he has no real reason to care about you; stop this pseudo-psycho fan stalker thing you've started (we all know you're not as crazy as you pretend to be), and find something real to say to him other than "Wow."

You can do it.

Sincerely,
IC