In your most recent novel, The Autograph Man (Random House), you unravel the story of Alex Li-Tandem, an autograph collector who scribbles regular fan letters to an elusive starlet named Kitty Alexander. Alex’s missives remain unanswered for years and years. You are, in a sense, like Kitty, and I am like Alex — except that I’m female, I have no amorous intentions, and I think autographs are stupid. Regardless, the point is that I left many messages with your publicist requesting an interview with you, but she never responded. And then, I went out of my way to attend one of your local readings last year — you never showed. Are you a real person?

If you are, I want to apologize for missing the first half of White Teeth, the PBS mini-series based on your first novel, a book you wrote when you were, like, 10. I’d planned to watch it — I tore through the story two years ago and loved it — but my roommate’s mother’s ass got in the way. See, I’m a year younger than you, 27, and my writing hasn’t exactly brought in kazillions of buckaroos like yours has, so I still have to share an apartment with an old friend whose mom dominates our space at least twice a year. I would cause a stink about this, but I’m more concerned about my flatmate’s failure to flush tinkle down the toilet than her parent’s occasional presence. But I digress.

Anyway, when my roommate left a voicemail telling me that her mother would be crashing at our apartment for Mother’s Day, I assumed she meant during the daytime. But when I came home at 9 p.m., somewhat sullen after a bad day of writing (your toes could type better sentences), I found my roomie’s mummy ensconced on our cushy couch, elbow-deep in a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and cackling at the finale of Survivor: The Amazon. I wanted to explain that I really needed to watch White Teeth. Forget the fact that I’m a shameless fan of yours; it would help me professionally: my colleagues — keyboard-tapping paupers with big literary dreams, but no self-discipline or means — all like to discuss Zadie Smith over afterwork drinks. If I lost my chance to participate in those pub conversations, I could lose my job. Worse, I could lose my barstool.

But my roommate’s mother was making the International Gesture for my-ass-ain’t-moving-off-the-sofa (butt planted so deeply in couch that cushions swathe neck; eyes glazed over with fist gripping television remote). So I skulked to my room.

Back to my original point: are you a real person? Or am I on a snipe hunt? Who writes an amazing book at 21, anyway? Who changes her name from Sadie to Zadie at 14? And why the hell would you come to crappy old Boston from London if you were real?

Why won’t your publicist return my calls? Has she met me?

Sincerely,

A local admirer at local rag

The second part of White Teeth airs this Sunday, May 18, at 9 p.m. on WGBH-Channel 2.