I first caught wind of the buzz around actress Mary-Louise Parker’s new book, Dear Mr. You, when, in an interview, the memoirist and poet Mary Karr, by all accounts a reputable source, told me that it was really, really good. Months later, when I got around to reading Parker’s debut, it became clear that Karr—whose blurb appears on the book’s cover—was totally right.

Like its author, Dear Mr. You plays by its own rules. Parker’s book comprises a series of letters that she’s written to men—some real, some imagined, some close to her heart, some virtual strangers. “Dear Big Feet” is for a boy Parker noticed while visiting her father in the hospital, a terminally sick child whose gangly feet stuck out from under his bedsheet and whose mother sat vigil, hopelessly, at his side. “Dear Cerberus” is written to a medley of beastly ex-boyfriends, a three-headed monster of loves turned sour. The heartrending “Dear Oyster Picker” is about the death of Parker’s beloved dad, a vet who overcame his demons and the emotional trauma of war to become an exceptional father and grandfather. Equally stirring is “Dear Mr. Cabdriver,” a missive to the New York cabbie who bore the brunt of Parker’s sadness and frustration when she was pregnant, scared, and alone.

It’s the last letter that’s garnering the most attention for its oblique yet recognizable reference to the period in the author’s life when, seven months into her pregnancy with their son, Parker’s longtime partner, Billy Crudup, left her for Claire Danes. But generally speaking, the author obstinately resists anything that smacks of a typical celebrity tell-all. And while Parker keeps some things vague—names, identifying details—she’s also wonderfully specific as a chronicler of observations and emotions. What emerges is a bit of literary nonfiction that’s lyrical, enduring, sometimes hilarious, and, at the level of the sentence, alarmingly well crafted.

“It won’t be for some people,” Parker told me candidly by phone. “They’ll be very disappointed when they open my book. They’ll be quickly turned off, I think.”

And to that, we say: Their loss! Read on for more from our conversation with the actress and author about reading, writing, and her cosmic weekend plans.

How did you end up writing a book of letters?

It was an idea from a piece I had done for Esquire. They asked me to write something about men in general, and it came out in letter form. I enjoyed the random rhythm of it.