So I opened my mail yesterday to find a severed finger in a box. Metallic confetti fell as I pulled the bloody digit out and twisted it in my hand.
I couldn't help but laugh.
In October, I wrote to my favorite novelist Chuck Palahniuk (Paula-nick). I had asked for advice on character development, being a reporter and other such crap. I wasn't expecting anything back. But Monday, there on my steps with the change of address covering who it was from, was a box the size of an ice cream carton.
Inside was a rubber chicken that if you squeezed it an egg would pop from its butt. An a rubber severed finger. And Chinese noise makers, an "It's a boy" gum cigar, temporary tattoos, a used pocket knife, a plastic carrot and other novelty crap.
He also included a few pieces of signed memorbelia and some CDs of him reading his work. My favorite was my "power raccoon." He's the guy that wrote Fight Club, so remember the scene with the power animal and the penguin telling the narrator to slide.
The letter truely was personalized, answering questions and telling me to stick with reporting because it was where the "BEST" novelists come from. (He himself holds a journalism degree.)
The fact that he spent all of that time piecing together this box of "sounds, colors and tastes," as he put it, showed how greatful he was for me writing to him and reading his work.
That gives me something to shoot for in terms of gratitude.
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