Dear Winn,

3 March 2026

After almost a month being in the library’s “on hold” queue for The Correspondent, I finally moved to the front of the line. They called my number, my ship came in. And I gobbled it, man. Meredith had said for weeks, “You’ll absolutely love it!,” and kept leaning on me to just listen to the audio version you stubborn man. But I stood strong. I wanted to eat the flesh of paper and drink the wine of ink. God reading the physical is communion, man. I’m so glad I waited. True love waits.

Virginia Evans gave birth to something so special while at the same time so ordinary, a baby so splendid. Now that I’ve read the book I want to get the backstory on her and the path to pub and all that. I vowed to avoid all such spoilers until I’d read it. Winn, she had me pretty much outta the gate when I read Sybil writing to Joan Didion, AND JOAN REPLIES. I was like “Let’s go, girls.”

I know you’ve read it and loved it too, not surprising as you gravitate to the epistolary. That word always makes me grin, Winn. I can hear my beautiful father preaching from the pulpit about “Paul’s epistles” and then feel (since I sat next to him) Steve Hooper laughing out loud in the pew beside me which made me laugh not quite so loud but still noticeable enough to draw the crow-eyed-glare of Baptists with their halos on too tight. Such a reaction would at once boil my boy blood and break my adolescent heart…people I loved acting so small when life is so precious and brief. As the Whyte-man writes: “The world was made to be free in.” Amen.

Two weekends ago I spoke at that conference down in Florida. I’d told you about it. I was a little nervous, not about speaking so much although those muscles are a bit rusty these days, but more about doing a good job for my friend. I enjoyed the time, Winn, I really did. And furthermore, I enjoyed the people. There’s a bit of hero-worship going on down there, that was clear. But here’s the deal. The pastors and staff there are in the business of giving people second chances (some third, fifth, tenth, seventy times seven), and people are hungry for that, starving for it, which naturally, humanly, leads to some hero-worship.

But here’s the deal. I’m okay with that. In fact, I love that, for it’s so special yet so ordinary, i.e., so beautiful. All weekend long I had the earworm of Peter Gabriel’s version of Bowie’s “Heroes”—“we can be heroes just for one day/we can be us just for one day.” We so need someone somewhere in this life to give us a second or fifteenth chance, even if just for one day. It has nothing to do with us doing something to earn that extra chance, but everything to do with us realizing we’ve been given such grace (umpteen times) and so we keep the river flowin’, man. And if that begets a bit of hero worship—let’s go, girls. To be grace-heroes in this world, in this life that is so precious and so brief…hell, man, that’s not being on the right side of history, that’s being on the right side of God.

To see you this past weekend in flesh and blood was pure gift—grace. I’ll see you again late April, cain’t wait. I’m returning The Correspondent today as I’m sure there are others starving in line. And I’ll grab The Buffalo Hunter Hunter as it is ready for pickup. I’ve been waiting on that one for weeks as well. You know, I might just write Virginia Evans a letter…

Westward always, into the sun.

John