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Dear Anthony Robert Kushner Tony Kushner Tony,

How do I address in writing a writer whose words I have poured over in the past five years? May I begin by stating the obvious? I am clearly a devout fan of yours. Prior Walters was my late goldfish’s name and I truly believe I can get through anything with “wee little fistfuls of Valium.”The only thing better than Brecht is a Kushner Brecht translation. Changing mediums hold no obstacle for you, as your screenplays have shown (and in the future are sure to show).

I, I, I, consider myself to be a humble reader and most of my celebrity idols have been dead for centuries. You, however, I have a chance of meeting. A 1,402,367,253 to 1 chance but, an opportunity no less. Though I doubt I would be capable of constructing an intelligent sentence in your presence, my desire to shake hands with you and remind you that through your writing you touch peoples lives everyday overwhelms any insecurities I may have.

It is possible that, for me, you represent all of my literary idols. Your social relevance and philosophical commentary rival any author that has inflated from antiquity. Your one liners of inspiration have become mantras. Your characters have become personifications of the shades of society.

You have given the underdogs hope and the afraid courage.

Through this, at times, painful progression of the literary world with nothing but longing for what is left behind your writing embodies the dream ahead.

Thank you for inspiring me as a writer and as a human being.

To anyone that may come across this and read this, I share with you a piece of Kushner’s writing. It is out of context but, the most spiritually uplifting and motivating plea for life I have ever read:

I’ve lived through such terrible times and there are people who live through much worse. But you see them living anyway. When they’re more spirit than body, more sores than skin, when they’re burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in the corners of the eyes of their children – they live. Death usually has to take life away. I don’t know if that’s just the animal. I don’t know if it’s not braver to die, but I recognize the habit; the addiction to being alive. So we live past hope. If I can find hope anywhere, that’s it, that’s the best I can do. It’s so much not enough. It’s so inadequate. But still bless me anyway. I want more life.

Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes – Part Two: Perestroika.