Dear writer

Dear Writer,

I cannot envy you for those memories of yours. As a reasonably privileged, stable, child in our little, forgotten part of the world, I went through very different things than the ones you went through and experienced. I cannot say I understand you.

And yet, envy you, I do. I had been afraid to read your words, because I was afraid I would have to lie. Ahhh, you forgot 'the' here, I would tell you, distracting you from the more basic faults of structure and content in your writing. You are my friend, and friends don't lie to friends about things that matter the most. Being an inconsiderate friend was a good bargain to get out of that situation. You never insisted, I never insisted, and things moved on.

Things have changed. You suddenly seem so... mature, bubbly, understanding. I am jealous; those around you, they must have done something to deserve you. We have talked about this.

Your voice has changed. You said you were embarrassed your accent was changing into Long-Island-uptalk-Americanese. Or maybe you are just more confident now. Your words used to end with a low tick, as if you had finished talking after every sentence and didn't really want to go to the next. The uptick makes you sound like you want to share everything you have, and more, and keep on talking. Or is that just wishful thinking on part of a desperate reader and admirer?

I wish we had talked these things earlier. Or perhaps, it's good we hadn't.

All I'm sayin' is, I have a huge freakin' crush on you after I read what you had to write, and it's a pity it's not going to anywhere considering everything. That is all. Let's save the words: you need those for the book that is going to be amazmindblowing.


Yours,
Reader