November 12, 1994
.sp 2
Dear Mr. Denofski,
.PP
.fi
.na
I have read about two thirds of the manuscripts that you
left with my wife; and I want to write out my thoughts on what
I have read, before my thoughts evaporate, as they do so readily 
with advancing age. The frailty of memory which presents itself
as an annoyance, proves in fact to be one of life's greatest blessings,
inasmuch as it permits us to replace the painful realities of
what we have done, - and what has been done to us, - with fantasy
and dream.
.PP
I must begin once more at the point which we were discussing in
my office, which I believe is eminently pertinent to your work:
namely that we who write must diligently practice avoiding that original
sin of viewing our texts as instruments by which we transcend the
biological constraints of our existence. There is nothing intrinsically
wrong with writing to become rich, no more than with prospecting for
gold or speculating in index futures, except that such efforts rarely
succeed and more often lead to poverty than to wealth. On the other hand,
I think it is very corrosive of ones spirit to write in order to 
be famous, in order to emblazon ones name on the decade or the
century. Such efforts not only fail, but they also draw the wrath of the fates
upon the trespasser into a realm which is inherently beyond the range
of us mortals who are born to die and to be forgotten.
.PP
If one passes beyond illusions of grandeur, fame and literary immortality, 
one is led by ones literary efforts into a realm in which ones experiences,
ones thoughts and feelings undergo transformation: one feels more poignantly,
one understands more clearly, one discovers unsuspected environments
of feeling and of thought as ones true home. If I interpret your writings
correctly, you are well on the way to this discovery; and I wish you well
in your search. It goes without saying, and requires no apology that
the landscapes that one discovers and creates in ones writing are
peculiarly ones own. You cannot reasonably expect me to be at home in
your castles or to fall in love with your women; just as I do not expect
to find you reading in my libraries or paying attention to my lectures
in philosophy. But that is as it should be. The writings of each of us are,
as Goethe said, "Bruchstuecke einer groszen Konfession." We do not presume
to criticise or even exhaustively to understand one another;
but once in a while we borrow from each other an idea or an image 
to illuminate some hitherto obscure corner of our own existence.
.PP
A number of suggestions come to my mind,
which may possibly help you in your work. 
I infer that you have a word processor or a computer.
I would enter all new writing, and possibly of you previous work
those pieces which mean most to you, into computer files,
which I would then systematically emend. Of course you will want to keep 
copies of the various stages of your work, because undoubtedly
some of the changes which you make will remove certain
facets of your work which are inherently valuable.
Don't be reluctant to have several versions of a poem or
of a story. Don't hesitate to  express the same experience
in different ways: some may be better than others, but all will
be meaningful. Select the words that you use, and construct the sentences
which you write not to be startling or to be "original", but to be 
a faithful mirror of what you see and think and feel.
Avoid expressions which are very common and vulgar;
for it is most difficult, if not impossible,
to imbue them with your own personality.
And the last thing you want is to be a shallow
echo of the cacophony of the world.
.PP
Of the various files that you compose, you can then make,
or have made, print-outs.
You obtain photocopies of the printouts,
to give to the occasional acquaintance, like myself,
who is interested in your writing.
But more important, read them to yourself,
religiously, both silently and aloud,
They are your bible,
in which you will discover endless variations
on the theme that is your life.
Then, if no one else understands,
if no one else cares, what does it matter?
.PP
Turning now to a more mundane view of your work,
I find your story, Jill and the Beanstalk, remarkable 
in several respects. It may well be suitable for publication
as a children's book. If I were you, I would edit it,
transscribe it, find an illustrator, visit the children's room
of a local library to find out who publishes what,
and send it off.
.PP
It also occurs to me that you might consider 
trying to make a career
of writing children's books.
I am told there is a ready market for them.
If I decided that I wanted to write childrens' books,
I would again go to the library and survey the children's
literature that is being published, consider the style and
the age group for which I might write,
and talk to the librarians
about what the children seem to like best.
Then I would let my fantasy roam in search of a character
like Jean deBrunhoff's Barbar and of adventures for him
that would stimulate the children's imaginations.
You might end up making a lot of money.
.nf
.sp 2
                                        Sincerely,


                                        Ernst J. Meyer, M.D.