A stay at my secluded mountain estate might prove just the thing for any of these young writers of such considerable talent and promise.
Perhaps the young author of Taipei and Richard Yates would accept an invitation to my 19th-century English-style château. Wandering the dozens of intricate footpaths that weave through the 80-acre grounds, Mr. Lin might find all manner of inspiration for his fine manuscripts.
I share all this vast space with only my mother, and so could give Tao Lin the garret guest room in which to work long into the night. Yes, Mr. Lin would have absolute quiet in the garret room to finish whatever masterpiece he is currently hard at work on.
The rising literary star Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie could lose herself among the rare, archaic books in my remote château’s voluminous library, right off the main building in the converted hunting lodge. And just maybe, as a gesture of thanks, Adichie might decide to write a story about me. Surely it would not be unreasonable to expect.
I could provide the man behind Witz with peace, quiet, and regular meals from my estate’s fully staffed kitchen. Since my family first settled on this property in 1847, we’ve often opened our doors to artists of all stripes. And should Mr. Cohen in his gratitude care to exchange bons mots with me some evening by the roaring flagstone fireplace, I would of course oblige.
Ms. Krilanovich could stay at my home so long as she understands unambiguously that she mustn’t enter the cellar. Nobody has entered my family’s root cellar since Cousin Sissy’s misfortune all the way back in 1967.
I have enjoyed James Tadd Adcox’s writing since his earliest work, and I know that he would spend many happy hours on the sun-kissed bank of the mountain pond. I’m glad to share my family’s long-established wealth in coal and rail interests with so gifted a novelist.
I spent my own childhood by the pond, and even tried my own hand at a few amateur verses there. James Tadd Adcox could doubtless utilize the space to more expert ends.
Then there’s my dear mother, Evelynn, with all her years of life and experience. I’m confident that Kate Zambreno would find material enough for at least two (maybe even three) new books if only she sat down at my sandalwood dining table and listened to one of Mother’s well-spun tales. Having familiarized myself with Zambreno’s piercing novels, I’m sure she would profit immensely from the residency I could offer her.
Eimear McBride was unwise to decline my invitation to use my wilderness manor during the composition of A Girl Is A Half-Formed Thing. I hope only that she might find her next muse among my portrait collection or amid the branches of the modest pear orchard planted by our gardener four decades ago. The offer remains open.