J.D and me

I once held the crazy notion that J.D. Salinger might grant me an interview.

I was a college student in New Hampshire, not too far from Salinger's home. Having been an active student journalist since the tenth grade, I thought the fact I was a student might somehow persuade the great writer to end his decades-long silence and sit down for a chat. I wanted to know what I imagined everyone else wanted to know: why would he deprive the world of his gift?

Catcher first caught my attention in the eighth grade when I heard of a controversy in a freshman English class at the high school. Students were working on a group project that involved decorating bulletin boards around pieces of literature. One group titled theirs "The Goddamn Catcher in the Rye." Once again, Salinger's use of profanity had sparked a debate in a public school community. The incident was enough to spark my interest the novel and I received a crimson red copy of it that Christmas from my parents.

I read the whole thing in a few days. A few weeks later it rained one day and I read the whole thing again, sprawled across my bedroom floor until late that night. In the end, when Holden mentions being in a mental hospital, I realized the destructive power of pent-up emotion. Not since Beverly Cleary's "Dear Mr. Henshaw" had a book touched me so deeply. When it came my time to do a project in my Freshman American literature class, I chose Salinger's "Franny and Zooey." More importantly, writing became my emotional outlet.

In addition to striking a coming-of-age chord in me, my experience with Salinger triggered a life-long love of serious literature. Reading wonderful books continuously humbles me as a writer and makes me my own harshest critic. For that I am grateful. When I think I've put words down that I can be proud of, I measure them against Ernest Hemingway, or John Irving, or when it comes to character, J.D. Salinger. Part of mastery is never being satisfied.

I've thought of starting a blog for years. On most days, I experience something and think to myself, I could make a good little essay out of that. I call them "eyes wide open" experiences. When I heard of Salinger's death this week, I figured this is as good a time as any to start. So this is the beginning. Of what, I don't know.

I regret that I never tried for an interview with Salinger. Thanks to his death this week providing a little push that I needed, I no longer dream of being a blogger. I am one.