Dear Mr. Sparks,
Let me start out by saying how much I love your work. You are proof that men can be romantic. Your novels have made us all cry, smile, cheer and love all of your realistic characters. You have single handedly revolutionized the way women look at romance.
Speaking of, I do have one problem. You have ruined my life. Please allow me to explain. I can’t help but notice that your novels may have distorted my view of reality. No one is offering to build me a white house with a wraparound porch with blue shutters. Nor will I be getting an art room in which I can freely express myself. No one has kissed me out in the pouring rain or has written down our life story that he will one day read to me as I lay in some obscure existence out of my mind. No built, sensitive marine has offered to help me run a dog training center and has accepted my family as his own. Or help me build homes for families in need. No long lost love has come back to me to help save a member of my family from an illness at his own expense.
It’s safe to say that I have been let down. That is your problem. You make fiction seem so real, you devil, you. You make everything from the gently scraped wooden floors to the dusty family portraits from times past mesh into a perfect façade of reality. No one sees it coming. The next thing you know, you are silently swept through the lives and minds of your characters. You feel their pain, understand their confusion and rejoice at their triumphs. As soon as the last words are read, true reality slams your reader ajar in their comfy seat with the special cushion grandma stitched and almost causes them to spill their freshly brewed coffee all over their flannel striped pajama bottoms and unsuspecting house cat. Your novels will haunt your readers for a lifetime. You, my friend are a genius. You keep “The Titanic” awake due to nightmares of disinterest. The kicker, it all seems so effortless for you. I’ll bet your grocery list could be a best time seller. You really have it.
Please understand that this is not a letter of hate or disdain, but rather a note of admiration. A round of applause, if you will. You have what other writers would give their kidneys, one lung and a tonsil for. You have insight. You write what you know every woman wants to hear. Kudos, my friend. You deserve nothing less. Thanks for everything.