Dear Dan Brown,
I would like to say, right from the start, that you are an incredibly dated subject for even the most hypothetical of letters. I was advised against writing to you, lest I compromise my reputation as a serious writer of fictitious letters, but what I have to say is very timely indeed. For, yesterday, as I was trudging my way to Russian drills, damning the cold and praying that my nose would stay intact—unlike those poor Mongolian tundra children whose noses slough off in the cold of winter—I noticed two boys standing in the center of the quad, excitedly shrieking and waving their hands. They were wearing suspenders and sideburns and smoking Bolshevik roll-ups. Cool customers, no doubt. I walked by very slowly and stealthily (in my lead-weight Wellingtons and bright red scarf) because I instinctively sensed that they were about to say something of highest import.
“Oh mah gawd, Felix! Ohmahgawdohmahgawdohmahgawd!”
“I know, Nando! Who would have thought that the lost circumpunct was here all along! Staring us in the faces!”
“Aaaaaaaaagggghhhh! It’s just like The Lost Symbol!”
“We mustn’t tell anyone! Discretion is imperative!”
“Aaaaaaaghhhhh!”
“Here, give me your hand!”
They never saw me, Dan Brown. They were too engrossed in their newfound glory to notice little old me.
Now, I haven’t read your new book about said circumpuncts. And I’m not really interested in your intrigues and codes. (Although if you circle every fifth word in every third sentence of this letter and piss on it under the full moon, you will find the Holy Grail!) What does interest me, though, are your balls, in a manner of speaking.
After all, it must have taken considerable gumption to cast aside your career as a synth master/pop singer and become an author of conspiracy fiction. Oh wait. Did you think I didn’t know about your career as a singer-songwriter of kiddie pop? I know all about “Happy Frogs” and “Suzuki Elephants.” I also know about your later endeavors in romantic crooning, and I have to admit, I particularly enjoyed your ode to phone sex, “976-Love.”
Now, you’ve clearly done very well for yourself, Mr. Brown, but can you imagine what it would be like if other pop singers decided to take up conspiracy thriller-writing on the side? I can see it now…
Vice-Tyke, by Justin Beiber
Synopsis: John Boober is on top of the world. He’s on the ballot as vice president to one of the most popular presidential candidates in years, he’s People’s Sexiest Politician Alive, and he’s dating the Alaskan governor’s daughter. His life is perfect. But he has a secret, a secret that could destroy everything: He’s only 12.
The Clever Name, by Eminem
Synopsis: One man realizes that the key to a secret brotherhood is actually contained in the mirror’s reflection OF HIS OWN NAME.
Diamonds in her Guitar, by Taylor Swift
Synopsis: Courageous teenage girl smuggles diamonds back into Sierra Leone by hiding them inside of her precious guitar.
She’s Just a Boy, by Lady GaGa
Synopsis: Sexy and daring hermaphrodite infiltrates the Taliban by relying equal measures of feminine charm and masculine forcefulness to achieve the objective.
Do you see what you have wrought?! Your career move, although successful, is a slippery slope for withering pop stars. And while you may deserve a place on this campus, Cher absolutely does not. I think the only way to solve this problem is for you to write these books before these musicians have the chance. So, if you’d like to use any of these plots in your next book, you can find me on Facebook, and we can work out the details.
Yours hypothetically,
Rory
