Dear Miranda July,

First of all, let me tell you how sorry I am that you could not make it to Utrecht. So many readers were looking forward to seeing and hearing you. We hope you will get better soon.

Second of all, I really don’t expect you to read this letter. You probably have enough on your mind as it is. The reason I am writing you in English is that I was so looking forward to standing on stage with you and calling your book 'riveting.'

To be completely honest with you, I don’t even know what the word “riveting” translates to in Dutch. But after reading blurbs on English book covers for over 30 years, I really looked forward to using that adjective. I was, after all, booked to give a laudatory speech.

“And with that,” I would have said before giving the stage to you, “Miranda July has written a relevant and riveting new novel. A book that manages to be funny, moving, arousing, visceral, playful, informative, and transformational.”

Obviously, I would have to explain to the audience that I had not yet read All Fours when I accepted the invitation to speak. If I had read the book in advance, I would have advised the festival to invite a woman to give a speech, not me.

Don’t get me wrong. I have read all your earlier books, seen your movies, and heard your audio plays. Me and You and Everyone We Knew was what started it. It spoke about loneliness, sex, and art in a way that was humorous, profound, original and personal. The internet was still in its early stages, so every time a new YouTube clip showed up, we would watch it. I have since listened to all the podcasts that had you as a guest. Very few people can talk about the process of making art the way you do. You make me want to get started and create. I have embraced how you don’t want to be in control of a medium. How embracing your inner amateur enables you to unpack unexpected possibilities.

When I read It Chooses You, I felt like I had made a real friend. When I discovered Learning to Love You More, the online art project you founded with Harrell Fletcher, I felt I could actually collaborate with you. Remember how the Internet seemed like a fun and creative place at that time? I participated in the assignments, although I am not sure if I ever sent them to you.

I did download the Somebody app. The messaging app you created that made it possible to have strangers deliver personal text messages in person. More than once, your app sent me on a mission to deliver a message to a stranger. Although I must admit, the app never really worked. Every time I went on a mission, I spent an hour desperately trying to locate somebody without being able to fulfil my mission. But then, perhaps the trying was what mattered. I am not sure real connection ever happens in your work. But the intimacy of two people trying to connect is what brings those people together in an intimate and very real way.

When I think of your work, I think about two people in a high-security prison. An inmate and a visitor. They put their hand on the glass. They can’t really touch, but it’s the joined effort that makes the connection real. Exploring the impossibility of intimacy together is perhaps the most intimat we can get. Just like the violence in The First Bad Man was about not about violence, but about an intimacy so big, it is impossible to describe with tenderness alone.

Then your publisher sent me the manuscript of All Fours. Not only was it wonderful to read, but what made it extra thrilling was that the novel had not yet come out. On every page it said, "Not for publication." Never have I felt closer to you. And at the same time, the more I progressed, the more the novel seemed to be written for women. Premenopausal women, to be more precise.

That’s when I started to worry that perhaps I was not the right person to deliver the laudatory speech in Utrecht. I envisioned an audience filled with 500 50-year-old women, all wondering why they were made to listen to a man. 

It reminded me of the feeling I had when, as a 12-year-old boy, I enrolled in ballet class. The dance school nearest to our village only had one dressing room. There had never been a male dance student before me.

I sat there each week before our class started. Most girls were at least a head taller than me. Their bodies changing, mine still very much the same as it had always been. All I wanted to do was dance, just like them. But in that dressing room, I felt out of place. Just like I would feel out of place with the 500 50-yearold women.

When I started to do my research, things only got worse. I realized your body of work is much larger than the few books, films, and plays I knew of. The more I discovered, the more I felt betrayed. My favorite artist had been having an affair with other readers and other audience members, all without my consent. This only got worse when I found your Instagram account. Filed with clips of you dancing. Clips I had never seen.

A surge of jealousy came over me. All that time you were making content, and I did not have a clue.

I realize now that this is an inappropriate reaction to have. But you are the only artist I know who has invited me over and over to participate in her work. Not being part of other work was something I had to come to terms with.

One night, when I could not stop worrying about what to say or do when you came to Utrecht, I did what I always do when I want to stop my mind from racing. I took out my AirPods to listen to a podcast.

Soon the sweet, meandering voice of David Sedaris streamed into my ears, reading a story by you, that you had been published in The New Yorker over 15 years ago. As often with your stories, the protagonist seemed very much alive, desperate for a human connection, and just as lonely at the end. After the story, David Sedaris and New Yorker Fiction editor Deborah Treisman talked about why they liked the story and what made it work. And then, Miranda, to my surprise, two men who normally talk about cycling joined in the conversation. For them, there was a direct and uncomplicated relationship between your writing and professional cycling. They even seemed to have read your latest novel! The more I listened to them talk about your work, the more I became convinced that I would do just fine writing a laudation speech.

Only when I woke up did I realize that a new podcast had automatically started to play. In my sleep, the two podcasts had mingled into one conversation that felt real but never took place. It did give me the confidence to write your laudation speech. Obviously, I am not a premenopausal woman. But just like your protagonists, I am a lonely person trying to find some sort of connection with other people.

Sure, All Fours is a novel about menopause. But it’s also very much about people trying to connect.

Was not the fact that I could not totally relate to your protagonist what made reading your book so intimate? The failed effort that we both put in? Just like an amateur, who is uncomfortable in a new genre, can get to places others cannot?

On page 181, you describe how the protagonist ends up in bed with a woman that she describes as the Rolls Royce of audiences. I thought that was so funny and so true. Don’t we all long for a Rolls Royce of audiences? Looking back, I think I have always wanted to be your Rolls Royce of audiences. I realize that I am not. But perhaps I can be your Ford Fusion? Not the most exciting car, but a dependable one that’s always there for you.

I immediately went online to order the shirt that I would wear to prove to you how dedicated a follower I am. I would have worn it under a jacket, to make it look a little less obvious. Unfortunately, you could not make it. 

Well, that’s all I have to say for now. 

Oh, and I really enjoyed your last book. I found it riveting.

All the best, 

Micha Wertheim