I'm a Minnesotan dislocated to Boston, and I feel at home and proud every time I get a chance to read or hear Mr. Keillor's thoughts. Thanks!

P.S. Women need sheds, too!

I'm a thirty year old black woman, and I absolutely love Garrison Keillor. My parents took me to one of his shows at Symphony Space. It took me a long time to realize what a wonderful storyteller he is.

I lived in Minneapolis for a decade beginning 30 years ago. We regularly listened to broadcasts of A Prairie Home Companion. We grew apart from the show after moving from the state. I find these contributions in Salon.com to be satisfying little gems. I "hear" them in Keillor's voice as I read and I like that. Thanks so much.

The final paragraph made ME smile.

About a year or so ago the metal gate to Emily Dickinson's grave was stolen. A few national organizations, including the FBI, I believe, were called in for the hunt.

It was eventually found at an antiques shop about 10 miles from my home here in Vermont. Although word had it that the shop's owners were blameless, they soon closed up shop and moved on.

Draw your own conclusions.

1) Authors who eschew prizes fall into two categories. Those who are so successful that the recognition is no longer necessary, and those who are so unsuccessful that they have no expectations of prizes. Everyone else needs prizes, even if they're only little bitty ones.

2) Excrescence, in airplane lingo, is all the little bits and pieces that prevent the airplane from being a perfect flying tube. It's the sum of all the little drag effects. It does an engineers heart good to see it's use in literature. I guess we all are connected in some way.

3)While I've never seen an author in the wild, one December I did see a politician buying bread in a supermarket. He was unremarkable until he noticed that I was giving that look of recognition and just starting the "Aren't you....?" question. He immediately stood up straighter, smiled broadly, held out his hand, and wished me a Merry Christmas. The transformation was spooky. I wonder whether authors would undergo some similar transformation.

Rich

You near as nothing made me cry this time. I hadn't realized that she died unpublished. All I can really say is "that stinks".

I've always been fond Mr. Keillor. Maybe it's because we're both aging, largeish northerners who have refused to abandon our humble Middle West.

Beneath the jocular exterior I detect a profound sadness. Don't worry Mr. K., dozens of books between the two of us and this old fish remains prizeless, too. I once stood behind one of my students in a bookstore and watch her pluck a title of mine from the shelf, read the back cover, roll her eyes and then sigh.

At least in the frozen north we've still plenty of elbow room. In any event, include more recipes next time.

At a place where I once worked, we threw a 20th birthday party for a lovely young African-American woman. She was so happy she was laughing uncontrollably, bent double. But, at one point she straightened up and said "I know it's not cool to laugh like this," so that we'd know that she was still cool. Reassured that we knew this was a temporary aberration, she went back to laughing.

If your reader hadn't been so absorbed in the book, she probably would've noticed the very large white man on the other side of the train who kept watching her read.

She probably still has that book on her shelf and I'd bet it's a bit dog-eared by now.

I wonder if Mr. Keillor has had another experience (it could only be with a Martian, in his case):

Martian asks you what you do. You say, I'm a writer. (You're over 21. Okay, over 51.) Martian puffs with enthusiasm. "Great! I've got a story you should write about!" It can last from a few minutes to a transcontinental flight. Often the stories are moving, extraordinary, or lovely in their ordinary Martianness. Yet I always feel taken aback by the assumption that I'm an machine with a handy skill and in need of plot lines. (If I only had time/space/income to write a little, only a little, of what I want to. Groan.) Would one say to a neurosurgeon, "Great! I've got a liver you should operate on!"?

So, in the name of all those well-intentioned Martians, I'll be one too. Dear GK, "I've got an idea you should write about!":

Write a perceptive appreciation of Unitarian Universalists.

You can be funny, just tap your inner vein of respect for religion (yup, it is one). And if you must mock, only do so with affection. Have fun!

I've sat across from an author sitting across from a reader - and then I looked beside me and I saw them there too.