Sorry Please Thank You (15 page)

Dear Alternate Self,

Will do.

Dear Alternate Self,

Whoops, sorry.

Dear Self,

This isn’t going to be—it can’t be—a dialogue between the two of us, at least not in the way that you (and I) was/were thinking when we wrote that first letter to each other. You write to me, I think about what you wrote, I write back to you. Whatever interaction is to come of this, that’s not how it works. Right?

Dear Self,

Right. Gotcha. On the same page now. Let’s dispense with the formality of the letter and just write to ourselves, in one long letter. How does that sound? Sounds great. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Can you stop that? Okay. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Stop it. Okay. Okay, so this is what we’re thinking. You’re getting us a little off track here, already, and for reasons that will become more clear to you, it’s especially important for me to stay on track. The problem, I guess, is that I’m not exactly sure what that entails. That’s why I am writing this to you. Actually, I don’t know exactly why I am writing this to you. I just know that I am. Writing this to you, I mean. But wait, I guess I’m not even sure about that. First principles. Back to basics. Foundational assumptions. I am who I am. You are who you are.

Who am I? I am you. And you are me. Are we the same person? Depends on what you mean by person. I don’t have a good working definition of person, which I am guessing means you don’t, either. Assuming, as noted above, that in your reality there is still something called science fiction, you should be familiar with the idea of multiple universes. You have to be, because when I say “you” I mean my intended reader for this writing, which is, by definition, a version of me who understands this concept. Okay, so, multiple universes: the hypothetical set of multiple possible universes (including your universe) that together make up all physical reality.

Anyway, I guess this is probably the first thing we should have established.

The multiverse? It’s real.

There are an inconceivably large number of copies of you. I’m one of them. (Are you sitting down? I am.) I’m not a particularly notable copy, I’m pretty sure there cannot be such a thing. But between you and me, I might be interesting, because, up until the moment you read the third sentence of this paragraph, you didn’t realize that I existed, that there are countless versions of you and me out there. We had been trading letters back and forth, but we hadn’t said it to ourselves, to each other yet. And now that we have, we both know it. You know it now, so I know it. And/or vice versa. I’m the one telling you this. I guess I’m notable in that I was sitting here, in my universe, and I realized that if there is a multiverse, then I should be able to communicate with other versions of myself by simply writing to myself in my own universe. The trick, I guess, the hard part, was in figuring out how to word it, and to whom to address it. I figured I had to couch it in terms that would be palatable to you, so I wanted to mention science fiction, but not actually call it that, so that you would know that I had a certain level of self-awareness, especially about how crazy all of this sounds. But now I am thinking that, since I could have called it science fiction, but didn’t, there is a world out there in which I wrote this to you, but did call it science fiction, in which a version of you/me is reading this, thinking it is all science fiction, which is fine. Let’s forget
him—he was bound to happen anyway. He split off from us the moment we started this letter. You are my intended audience. And I suppose I am yours. So, I didn’t call it science fiction, because, well, my life is real and so is yours and even though this may seem impossibly remote and fantastical and too abstract to matter, it matters to me, and I know that it matters to you, too, and sitting here, thinking about all of the possibilities, lost and never known, all of the regrets, all of the would haves and could haves and should haves, three different types of universes, all of them every bit as real as the one you are in right now. In fact, maybe you are in one of them. What is “is” to you is “could have” in the eyes of someone else.

What we’ve created here is a space, a kind of meeting place for other versions of ourselves. Like a time travelers’ convention, it can take place anywhere. Just by putting this down on paper, by addressing a letter “Dear Self.” My note to self is entangled with your note to self. So you’re sitting there, like me, writing this to yourself.

We’re corresponding.

We are correspondents corresponding in our corresponding universes.

Is that what writing is? A collaboration between selves across the multiverse? I’ve written stories that had to be wrung out, drop by drop, in the arid environment of the desert of your imagination.

You’ve written other stories that came in a rush, your forehead clammy, feverish, trying to just keep up with
the words as they were pouring out—but from where? Nowhere you can go back to. Nowhere you understand. Do you think you know how writing works?

I’ve seen a lot of things, and you’ve probably seen a lot of things. What is happening right now as you read this? Am I the writer and you the reader? Or are you writing it and I’m reading it? If you think you are writing, do you feel like you know where it’s coming from? If you think you are reading, is this information you are learning, passively? Or do you feel like you could be creating it? Does it occur to you as a voice in your head? Your own voice in your own head?

I feel, of course, that I am writing all of this, and it is all coming from me, but then again, how can I be sure?

How can I be any more sure than you are?

Dear Selves,

Hey guys!

Whoa.

What was that?

I don’t know.

We split off again.