Dear Mr. Hornby,

I'm on to you. At least, I have a theory.

I spent last Saturday with your most recent novel, Juliet, Naked, one elbow resting against the arm of the sofa much longer than I probably should have had it there. My back has been cramped for days, but I honestly don't mind. I devoured the book in a single sitting; on several occasions I laughed out loud and found myself ignoring my husband's repeated requests to decide what I wanted for dinner. Needless to say I enjoyed it; thank you for that.

But something has been bothering me ever since I finished the book. I've heard it said — not that you can control what is said about your work — that Tucker Crowe was a Dylan-esque character. Tucker Crowe, like Dylan or Leonard Cohen. Something along those lines.

I played along. For the first half of the book, I put Blood on the Tracks on the turntable, only getting up from my prone position on the sofa, book in hand, when the last notes of "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" or "Buckets of Rain" started to fade and the needle made that beckoning spin-POP sound it makes when it reaches the end of the record. I dutifully performed this act several times before I realized that something was wrong.

He isn't supposed to be Dylan, is he? Or even Leonard Cohen. Nick Hornby, I've figured you out, the jig is up: Tucker Crowe is Alex Chilton.

A studio in Memphis? An accountant's haircut and specs? Admired by Peter Buck and Jeff Buckley (who once gave Big Star's "Kangaroo" the 14 minute treatment)? And this (fake) album cover you and your pal Wesley Stace came up with... An homage to a young Alex Chilton if I ever saw one.

With that, Blood on the Tracks came off; Third/Sister Lovers went on.

It's entirely possible you yourself don't even know that this is the case. In the same way we sometimes see ourselves portrayed so precisely in the fiction of authors we've never met, it's possible that you have drawn up the perfect characterization of Alex Chilton without even realizing it. An accident of "Blue Moon" coming on your iPod at just the right time, the image of a shaggy-haired singer infecting your prose, a singer whose love songs only a handful of people had the chance to learn by heart before he moved on to other pastures, a seemingly distant forgotten legend.

I appreciate the accident. This may make me seem as mad and obsessive as your Duncan, but realizing Chilton was your likely muse made the book all the better for me. And I just wanted to say it out loud.

Sincerely,
A Fan

More serious reviews of the latest Hornby novel at The Second Pass and The Guardian. Also: An entire record label of artists that only exist in the pages of books.