Dear Mr. Young, I have no intention of invading your home and mutilating your wife with a beer bottle.
But let me back up.
I was yesterday compelled to visit Goodwill (which seems to feature in my synchronicities as of late), and after fighting it tooth and nail like a child does medicine, I complied, and bought The Great Gatsby for 75 cents, a book I had read in high school and retained not a word of. Coincidentally, I finished my current read on the same day. I vowed to start Gatsby the next day.
When today rolled around, as it has a habit of, I did my thing, and this morning had an odd surge of thoughts regarding a short story of mine, "Variations of Soullessness". This is where you come in, Mr. Young, as the protagonist's name mirrors your own, Vincent Young, chosen arbitrarily (my Vincent Young's wife is the one mutilated with the beer bottle, by the story's antagonist, but as I said, this in no way includes you, okay? Cool). From nowhere, the story popped into my head, for the first time since I'd last submitted it, a month prior. I felt around this some, found no reason why I should be thinking of this particular story of the dozens I've written, had time to wonder what the folks at Chizine thought of it, and let it go -- but not before it made a solid impression on me.
I at last got around to starting Gatsby this afternoon, approximately an hour or two since being harassed by thoughts of the Vincent Young-starring "Variations". As I sat down and opened the book, however, I didn't get past the first page, because behind the cover was a library stamp, a single borrower written within: Vincent Young.