Monday, January 11, 2016

A Letter to Creative Writing, my friend

Dear Creative Writing,

I found you and a middle aged guy with a beard in a school full of heavily medicated white people with too much to lose. I was 16, and you were too old for me. My counselor said no but my heart said yes, and started talking to you at 2AM without a permission slip.

I got my first comment the same week and I was hooked on you like morphine. I became an addict. Over the next year, I got to know you better than I know my own scars.

It’s pretty odd, then, that it took five thousand miles and the Eiffel tower for me to realize that you’re full of shit.

You were never really about the writing, were you? Never about Bitter Gold or Delilah or Alice or even Nelson. You weren’t about the journals or the cliches we scrawled into them like we were writing the bible all over again. You weren’t even about Paris.

You...
You were about being scared.

About shaky hands and the stuttering voice that somehow resulted in clapping.
About the moment of hesitation before writing the truth in a journal you know a teacher will read,
and about rolling up your sleeves and admitting we all have scars.

You were about the publish button. 
Hell, you were the publish button.

Everything else was just a lie you used to tell the truth.

So, listen. I know you're not a priest, but I'm gonna call this a confessional. For old time’s sake.

Real talk: I'm scared to walk into class every day. I know it's all (mostly) in my head, but it feels like people are judging me.

Real talk: Speaking of which, if you never felt judged in this class, you probably did it wrong.

Real talk: I still don’t know whether or not this letter should be an apology.

Real talk: I’ve spent 18 years tying to figure out if my life is a comedy or a tragedy, and to be honest, I think it’s both.

Real talk: I wanna believe I’m finally gonna be okay. But I’m still scared of getting my hopes up.

Real talk: You know there’s a problem around here when your friend tells you “Don’t let me out of your sight; I don’t trust myself alone”.

Real talk: Last year, I didn’t either.

Real talk: I’ve never thanked Nelson before in a poem because I know it makes him feel uncomfortable. But I’m gonna do it anyway.

Real talk: Thank you.

Real talk: Ethan Harris was the pen name name all along. He died on November 28th in a cafe burrowed into the back streets of Paris and the last thing he said before I let him go was "Thank you".

So, creative writing, I guess the last thing I say to you before you let me go, is one in the same:

Thank you. 

Don’t forget me.

This has been Solstice Everston, signing off.

(Until Creative Writing Two)

8 comments:

  1. you are the best writer, ever. seriously. if I ever become half as good as you...then my life would be complete. thank you for all of your amazing posts. you are so talented. sorry I don't comment more..because I think you're the greatest blogger of all time. (and I think most would agree with me)

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  2. no thank you for showing us what true bravery is. you are an amazing writer, thank you again solstice.

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  3. Oh wow. Too bad most people won't see this.

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  4. Nice post, i loved the turn it took toward the beginning.
    Oh, and thanks for the shout out(:

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  5. The line about Ethan dying=all the feels.

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  6. Amazing. Just everything, amazing.

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  7. You're amazing. and thanks for commenting on my blog every once in a while, at least someone still reads my stuff haha. I just read your reveal, and it was too dope. I wish I was as brave as you.

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  8. "I found you and a middle aged guy with a beard in a school full of heavily medicated white people with too much to lose."
    This line holds too much truth.
    Beautiful post.

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Thanks for commenting! *Awkward high five*