Dreaming About Lorrie Moore

In last night's dream, I was back in Missouri and Lorrie Moore came to visit me. Why she would leave a totally cool town like Madison and come to an almost culturally bankrupt area like central Missouri cannot be explained. Chalk it up to the crazy quilt of dream logic.

Soon after LM arrived, we went out and ate at Ryan's. I paid. LM didn't eat much; I finished her salad. I spent a lot of time praising Self-Help and excitedly raving about Anagrams. All the while, I was worried that she'd ask me how I liked Who Will Run The Frog Hospital? and I'd have to admit that it was my least favorite of her books.

Also, I was concerned that LM might be miffed that I wasn't talking about any of her work past the 1980s, so while I was gorging on a thick slice of chocolate pudding cake, I began discussing her short stories "You're Ugly, Too", "Charades" and "People Like That Are The Only People Here".

LM wasn't talking much. My anxiety grew. Had she put out another book lately that I was unaware of? Maybe she wouldn't accept being an expat as an excuse for not being up-to-date. Damn, that chocolate pudding cake was just right! Scrumptious! Why wasn't LM having any?

After Ryan's, LM and I went to Sedalia Books, the only bookstore in my hometown. (The fiction section gets shittier every time I see it. Ten years ago, it was verging on brilliant.) I did a quick scan; none of LM's books were in stock. I was embarrassed, but LM said that it was normal and not to worry. She bought a copy of The Brothers Karamazov and stuck it in her shoulder bag. I wouldn't buy anything; I glowered at the manager, who was running the cash register.

Back at my house, LM spent the evening browsing all my bookshelves, where she of course spotted her books. She praised my collection. She said she liked my bookshelves better than Sedalia Books. I said, "Oh, you should see all the stuff I've got back in South Korea."

When I woke up the next morning, LM had already left for the airport. She left behind one of her outfits -- something yellow -- in the tiny guest room closet. I decided to keep it forever and hoped she wouldn't call or email and ask about it.

I'm glad I dreamed about Lorrie Moore. Her books helped me get through a dismal time in my life. It was 20 years ago today that I was wretchedly living in Garland, Texas, a suburb of Dallas, and working at a job (at Texas Instruments) that I despised more and more with each passing day. My co-workers only had three topics of non-work conversation: the Dallas Cowboys, the heavy Dallas traffic and the stock market.

One of my few bright spots was a Half-Price Books store that I passed on the way home every day. One evening, I found Self-Help. I read the first story right there, standing in the fiction aisle, then bought it. On a subsequent trip, I discovered Anagrams there, bought it immediately and enjoyed every word. It's funny how books can be as effective as a therapist. I began to pull out of my blue funk and began to feel certain that my life would improve.


A few months later, I quit Dallas forever. I reread Self-Help and Anagrams at least once a year, went on to read Lorrie Moore's other work, and enjoyed watching her popularity as a short-story writer grow. Whenever The New Yorker had a new story by Lorrie Moore in one of its issues, I felt a warm glow, as if she were giving me a personal gift. 20 years on, I still feel very much the same way. Her strangely endearing mix of quirky humor and poignancy still pulls me in. There's nothing like a Lorrie Moore story.

The bleakness of my time in Dallas has faded like a bruise, but my memory of discovering Lorrie Moore at that Half-Price Books in Garland still shines brightly. It's improbable that Lorrie Moore will read this blog, but I'd still like to send out a thank you on behalf of the miserable 25-year-old she helped so much so long ago. And Lorrie -- if you ever decide to do a book tour of Asia, feel free to stop and see me in Korea. We'll go out for bulgogi.