An Open Letter to the Makers of "The Good Wife" and "The Mentalist"
by Susan Maureen Brandt

Late last summer, I realized something.

Watching a television show one evening, as I've done since I was such a tiny child I can't remember anything except the channels were black and white and there were two of them, it suddenly became clear to me that I could predict the plots of tv shows.

Not because of my honed skills of psychic sensitivity, but because of Julius Caesar.

Like the child who shouted out that the emperor wasn't wearing any clothes, I was the one with the super-power of not being afraid to look stupid, naive, or uncultured. So I began to write. First I wrote to the people who ran the websites devoted to the fans devoted to the show. No response. Then I wrote to the fans themselves. To no response. Then I wrote to the world at large, I began hollering from the internet mountaintops all about the scam behind every single show on tv, every book properly published since Guttenberg said "Go!", every song written for reasons officially "unknown".

Because now I knew the reasons. And whatever you may think you know of me, and whatever I may think I know of you, the truth is that we do not stand a chance of knowing anything about each other, only what we've told each other of our reasons. Mine is truth. Yours is...Oh, that's right, you haven't told me your reasons yet.

But there is one thing I deeply want to thank you for. By deciding to write me into your shows, you greatly boosted my courage. By encoding my name and my opinions and theories into your brilliantly distracted plots, you gave me something my life has never allowed me to have before. The sweet, silent pleasure of watching as I change the world.

I really didn't think I could DO anything, and I surely would have run out of steam and hot air sooner rather than later. Watching these dedicated episodes of "The Good Wife" and "The Mentalist", with their Martin Brents and their Suzanne Morrises, their carob chips and incest and whiskeys at noon, I have to say, has lifted a burden of nothingness I have carried on my faltering shoulders for my entire life.

It wasn't the Brotherhood that made me sad, for I didn't know They existed. It was sadness that made me sad. And sadness never leaves this world. But you have cured me of it. For now, when I falter, when I ache, when the blistering festering heat of infection makes me want to squeeze my eyes shut so tightly I can't type, I think of how you decided, really chose, of your own beatifically free will, to include me in your stories, and my, how a smile smooths everything over.

We were fated to cross paths, you and I, but as you believe you had the choice to write me in or not, it will wearily wound you to know how your words have helped me. Before, I was merely one of those pathetic have-nothing, know-nothing, decode-nothing idiots you look down on, or up, if we truly are suspended in some ripened floating bubble of dear Caecilius' making. Now I am more.

Now I am happy. Now I am on television. And, Andy would note, not that he talks to me, you have given me far more than fifteen minutes, to your shame.

Look. Just try to picture this -

You don't know how we dream. You don't know what hope, when hoped so purely and for so long it bleeds from the tear ducts as thick as aloe, can heal, can miracle into being.

You underestimate the true beauty and strength and mysticism of this world. I don't.

For here I sit, with my friend the ghost of Lucius Past, hovering upright in his corner beside me. He says to me now, Victory is Ours, over Those who Think that History is Etched Anywhere But the Air.

I don't know even know what he means by it, but I know he's a lot happier now, too. He truly seems to feel unburdened by the marvellous fact that we are growing ever so much closer to the day when he can be left alone, left unwritten about.

Thank you, for helping Lucius and I feel so...much...better.

Crazy, yes.

Sad, no.