Elif Shafak is one of Turkey’s most acclaimed and outspoken novelists

Ella 
NORTHAMPTON, JUNE 26, 2008
Beloved Aziz,
I decided to write you a letter this time. You know, the old-fashioned way, with ink, a perfumed 
paper, a matching envelope, and a stamp. I am going to mail it to Amsterdam this afternoon. I 
need to do this right away because if I delay in mailing my letter, I am afraid I will never be able 
to do it.
First you meet someone—someone who is completely different from everyone around you. 
Someone who sees everything in a different light and forces you to shift, change your angle of 
vision, observe everything anew, within and without. You think you can keep a safe distance 
from him. You think you can navigate your way through this beautiful storm until you realize, 
much too suddenly, you are thrust out into the open and in fact you control nothing.
I cannot tell when exactly I became captivated by your words. All I know is, our correspondence 
has been changing me. Right from the start. Chances are I will regret saying this. But having 

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spent my whole life regretting the things I failed to do, I see no harm in doing something 
regrettable for a change.
Ever since I “met” you through your novel and your e-mails, you have dominated my thoughts. 
Every time I read an e-mail from you, I feel something inside me swirl and realize that I have not 
known such contentment and excitement in a long while. Throughout the day you are on my 
mind all the time. I talk to you silently, wondering how you would respond to every new 
stimulus in my life. When I go to a nice restaurant, I want to go there with you. When I see 
anything of interest, I am saddened by not being able to show it to you. The other day my 
younger daughter asked me if I had done something with my hair. My hair is the same as always! 
But it’s true that I look different, because I feel different.
Then I remind myself that we haven’t even met yet. And that brings me back to reality. And the 
reality is that I don’t know what to do with you. I have finished reading your novel and turned in 
my report. (Oh, yes, I was writing an editorial report on it. There were times when I wanted to 
share my views with you, or at least send you the report I gave the literary agent, but I thought 
that wouldn’t be right. Although I can’t share with you the details of my report, you should know 
that I absolutely loved your book. Thank you for the pleasure. Your words will stay with me 
always.)
Anyway, Sweet Blasphemy has nothing to do with my decision to write this letter, or perhaps it 
has everything to do with it. What has compelled me is this thing between us, whatever it is, and 
its overwhelming impact upon me is eluding my control. It has become more serious than I can 
handle. I first loved your imagination and your stories, and then I realized I love the man behind 
the stories.
Now I don’t know what to do with you.
As I said, I need to send this letter immediately. If not, I will have to tear it into a dozen bits. I 
will act as if there is nothing new in my life, nothing unusual.
Yes, I could do what I always do and pretend that everything is normal.
I could pretend if it weren’t for this sweet ache in my heart …
With love,
Ella