I’m a writer, but I don’t publish. I’m also an artist, but I am not in museums. On the internet, no one really knows me. Sometimes I delete myself entirely from the web, years and years of slices of life removed and later forgotten, then crawl back in slowly through the cracks and re-make a name, then I destroy it all again. Isn’t that weird? When I write, I write with friends in private because I don’t believe I could really make it. Lately, especially today, I feel particularly restrained in the same way you’ve described here. I find it even a little too convenient you have posted this today. Not saying it was meant to be, obviously, but who even knows what cosmic power there is. lol
If I stopped writing, if I stopped painting, I’m fairly certain I would crumble, shrivel up in a corner, and die with my limbs curled up on my belly. What attracts me to your writing, believe it or not, is the pain in it: there’s a lot of hurt, a lot of anger, a lot of sadness. Both fortunately and unfortunately, I can relate. I was thinking about it this morning, as it turns out: not only is your writing beautifully sombre, but your characters are also relatable. I related a lot to Charles. I see Lily in my mother and Lily’s mother in my grand-mother. But there’s survival there amidst the tragedy. There’s still love. And the most obvious part of your work is just that: love. I’m not entirely certain why I am writing this here. Most of it is probably gibberish (lol), but a large part of this is me trying to say that if anyone would read everything you have written, rejected or not, I would. The world is bleak these days, but there’s still a lot of love, and I found some of it in your books. You have inspired me to write better, and to not stop. I’m very difficult when it comes to reading material. It takes less than ten pages for me to know I won’t finish a book. I devoured your work. You may sometimes feel like your worth is measured in how many manuscripts were accepted or rejected — I’m here to tell you, there are people like me who are just waiting for more. I think you’re brilliant. I think you shine a lot more than you may believe. So thank you. You’ve helped someone stay on their feet a little longer.
I’m a writer, but I don’t publish. I’m also an artist, but I am not in museums. On the internet, no one really knows me. Sometimes I delete myself entirely from the web, years and years of slices of life removed and later forgotten, then crawl back in slowly through the cracks and re-make a name, then I destroy it all again. Isn’t that weird? When I write, I write with friends in private because I don’t believe I could really make it. Lately, especially today, I feel particularly restrained in the same way you’ve described here. I find it even a little too convenient you have posted this today. Not saying it was meant to be, obviously, but who even knows what cosmic power there is. lol
If I stopped writing, if I stopped painting, I’m fairly certain I would crumble, shrivel up in a corner, and die with my limbs curled up on my belly. What attracts me to your writing, believe it or not, is the pain in it: there’s a lot of hurt, a lot of anger, a lot of sadness. Both fortunately and unfortunately, I can relate. I was thinking about it this morning, as it turns out: not only is your writing beautifully sombre, but your characters are also relatable. I related a lot to Charles. I see Lily in my mother and Lily’s mother in my grand-mother. But there’s survival there amidst the tragedy. There’s still love. And the most obvious part of your work is just that: love. I’m not entirely certain why I am writing this here. Most of it is probably gibberish (lol), but a large part of this is me trying to say that if anyone would read everything you have written, rejected or not, I would. The world is bleak these days, but there’s still a lot of love, and I found some of it in your books. You have inspired me to write better, and to not stop. I’m very difficult when it comes to reading material. It takes less than ten pages for me to know I won’t finish a book. I devoured your work. You may sometimes feel like your worth is measured in how many manuscripts were accepted or rejected — I’m here to tell you, there are people like me who are just waiting for more. I think you’re brilliant. I think you shine a lot more than you may believe. So thank you. You’ve helped someone stay on their feet a little longer.