I treated myself early this morning. It was the first morning in a long time that I woke up feeling as if I hadn't gone ten rounds with a prize fighter. We talked about mattresses yesterday at lunch and I got out our old blow up bed, blew it up, and slept on it. My theory might be right. It may have been our mattress all along. Within minutes of getting up from the bed of less air than I started out upon, I made my coffee and grabbed the little stack of writes that you put into my hands before we departed yesterday.
I felt like jumping for joy. Your stuff is good Bev. No, it's great Bev. I read the three new essays and re-read the shorter piece that you shared at lunch. I hung on every word. Why you lack confidence in your ability to deliver is beyond me. You hang the moon. I think a book of your written gems would be a great seller. Maybe not a best seller, but a great seller. You'd miss capturing that vast audience that begs and calls for violence, smut and cranked-out crap. You would not appeal to the crowds of Americans who don't breathe, who don't process feelings. Yours would be an audience of sensitive, intelligent people who appreciate the beauty of the written word and see that it is through words, and words alone, words beautifully chosen and interwoven, that stories are told. The size of your audience is what scares me about life. The fact that you write so freely about prayer shifts the balance.
You tell stories, Bev.
We've been writing together for over six years now. Can you believe it? I adore and love you and feel that every moment you give to me is a gift. Your life is busy and filled with things that I can only wish to have. Yet, each time we meet, you make me feel special and honored. You make me want to write. You affirm my belief that it is when we write, we learn about ourselves. You affirm my belief that words make worlds and sometimes bring us into worlds begging for more words.
Look at yourself.....who would have guessed that you would become the prompt.
You are the story, Bev.
I felt like jumping for joy. Your stuff is good Bev. No, it's great Bev. I read the three new essays and re-read the shorter piece that you shared at lunch. I hung on every word. Why you lack confidence in your ability to deliver is beyond me. You hang the moon. I think a book of your written gems would be a great seller. Maybe not a best seller, but a great seller. You'd miss capturing that vast audience that begs and calls for violence, smut and cranked-out crap. You would not appeal to the crowds of Americans who don't breathe, who don't process feelings. Yours would be an audience of sensitive, intelligent people who appreciate the beauty of the written word and see that it is through words, and words alone, words beautifully chosen and interwoven, that stories are told. The size of your audience is what scares me about life. The fact that you write so freely about prayer shifts the balance.
You tell stories, Bev.
We've been writing together for over six years now. Can you believe it? I adore and love you and feel that every moment you give to me is a gift. Your life is busy and filled with things that I can only wish to have. Yet, each time we meet, you make me feel special and honored. You make me want to write. You affirm my belief that it is when we write, we learn about ourselves. You affirm my belief that words make worlds and sometimes bring us into worlds begging for more words.
Look at yourself.....who would have guessed that you would become the prompt.
You are the story, Bev.
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