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Journal, Diary, & Blogging / Just a letter X
A babysitter is sitting on the other end of the couch waiting for dad to drive her home. She is on the phone, laughing, fiddling her foot around, and saying “I love you” to her boyfriend. Naturally, I’m thinking of you.
I remember our first encounter where I was swept up into your eyes and your smile and your warmth after trudging through the cold December night to the dreaded banquet. I remember my eyes widening, my heart filling up a little more than usual, and taking a deep breath. I remember subsequently, almost a year later, after similar phone calls as the babysitter is having, on my end, at least, much happier phone calls than any of late, my first American Thanksgiving at your home. I stayed late because you offered to drive me [to dad’s], which you kindly did, but not before we strolled through the forest with your brother, the two of you in hunter orange with loaded rifles and me in the middle, nor you stopped at the food mart in the Ames plaza where you picked up Asian gummy candies and continued on to Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and I’m sure by then I was already starting to get an idea of who you were.
You were the most incredibly attractive young woman it had been my pleasure to meet. You were intelligent, funny, fun, warm, exiting, and a professing Christian. I was falling in love. I remember buying a phone plan in Canada that included US air time so I could talk to you for at least an hour a month. I remember calling your house on Christmas eve when I was alone in my mother’s apartment, playing videogames and listening to Faith Hill which I bought through your endorsement, and getting no response. I remember a conversation with [a friend] before I made the move to dad’s when I admitted that you were indeed one of the pull factors for that move. This is the same [friend] that you refused to meet when he came to visit me. We also missed him the weekend you accompanied me home and decided something against my family there that I’ll never understand.
I loved you for a long time. I loved you. Perhaps I still do, though I would not admit it now. When I say that I loved you, I am referring to the essence of what I know myself to be loving the essence of what I perhaps assumed you to be, but feel pretty sure of nonetheless. But you never seemed to acquaint yourself with the you I knew, and in the past few months have denied it all together, that being your heart.
The book I left you to borrow, “Waking the Dead” speaks of this issue of the identity of the heart, which is where I have tried to live in following my dreams, my ideals, and in loving you. For a time these were all the same thing. That was the best time in my life, which has made the subsequent trials seem such a hell. The you I loved was strong and weak, was good and bad, was smart and silly, was funny and serious, was beautiful in all she did because she was true to herself in loving me back with her heart, or so it seemed to me. Then her head intruded and her heart was closed off for long periods of time where “nothings” and “I don’t knows” answered every question, where contradictions and decisions trumped feelings and convictions, and love was traded in for convenience or security or anonymity or animosity or whatever it was you got from devoting yourself to someone miles away who never cared for you the way I cared for you, and doesn’t love you the way I did, who you left for me, but is chosen nonetheless. Or so it seemed to me.
I don’t believe you when you say it isn’t me you want because I don’t believe that you are allowing your heart to speak. I believe that I loved to the very heart of you and that your heart has loved me too. I have no idea what is going on in your life in regards to your boyfriend, your decided attempt, but I believe that it is headstrong, and that even if it succeeds it is a failure if your heart is not in it.
I don’t know what shortcoming you have found in me apart from financial standings, but whatever it is must exist because I believe that you know me. You have heard me speak from my heart and differentiate between my heart and my head in regards to the same circumstance. You have pages and pages of poems and other writing stemming from both sources and you have I, myself, of whom you could have asked anything and it most likely would have been answered but we have fallen apart. We have been forced apart by decisions made and the consequences that followed. If you think I’m fine and functioning wonderfully without you you’re wrong. If you didn’t see me in church on Halloween, feeling utterly defeated and alone, when who once was my best friend ignores my suffering completely and leaves me to it, perhaps I could understand. I for one cannot leave a friend I know is suffering to face it alone even if it means breaching a proximity I would rather not breach. But I know what I believe a friend is by the friend I try to be and constantly fall short of being, even to you when that is all you asked of me. I felt inadequate because you refused your heart to me these past weeks, months, year(s), in more cases than not, which is why I found my love for you so frustrating. As soon as I knew who I loved she denied her true self to be loved. I don’t get it.
If you’re inclined to read the book, read it and know that I believe it and have tried and failed at loving you the way I see you as deserving to be loved because the you I know, and the you I loved is the you God knows and the you God loves; I loved the God in you and you in God and now I think in past tense. Time heals nothing; it’s a measure of death and decay. Life is in the choices we make and the medium with which we choose. I don’t want to lose my heart over you. I don’t want to lose my heart at all. I want you to know that you are good, worth all the love anyone has to give, the best, and no less.
In the past two weeks while whispers of others pass through my mind, it has never been betters, just others, because I’ll never find a better fit for me than you, though I may find another fit, should it come to that. I doubt if you’ll ever have a problem finding someone, but you can certainly make mistakes. It makes you human and that much more beautiful, more so if you can remedy them.
The babysitter is long gone. The memory of her fading and fogging in the short lapse of time, and had I begun this now perhaps more facts would be skewed, but I believe my heart would still shine through. Maybe I’m naïve, or a glutton for pain, or maybe I hope to a fault. Our hearts are far more akin than our minds. I don’t see where we differ that much, you don’t see where we don’t. I think your eyes are beautiful, they drew me to discover your heart, but I wish you saw me differently. I love(d) you.
That was yesterday. Today I watched the showroom. I assume I know why. I went to your house to drop off your keys and the mail. I stood before your parents for at least half an hour trying to find some way to tell them I’m sorry I’m not around, that I miss them and the closest thing to a home I’ve known in years, that I wish I were the family member I wanted to be, that I loved them, all your family, you as well, but it was all small talk that led to tears driving here, my father’s house. I hugged your mom goodbye and I just wanted to hold her forever to be comforted by someone. Your parents told me to say hello to my grandparents from them, and my mom. I’ll be going to Canada during thanksgiving this year. I would invite you yet, as a friend, because I doubt I’d ever invite you again and I would like to allow you the opportunity to say goodbye, and to introduce you to so many good people who I have talked to about you, and how you had stole my heart away, how I gave it to you, how frustrating you are in such a wonderful way, how frustrating you are in less wonderful ways, in endless hopes that you’ll open the eyes of your heart and see me with those instead of looking at my heart with your eyes and seeing nothing but drama and emotion and differences. I finished an unfinished addition to the “BO Letterhead” today. Something else to read or something else to dig into to get another little piece of me buried inside. You’ll never know the depths of love until you unveil your heart and know it; whoever it is you choose to love. I’m sure I’ll only ever succeed in pushing you further and further away from me and closer to him or whoever, and that one day I’ll know that it’s time to say goodbye and thank-you and I am so sorry to your parents, but I couldn’t say that today. Today I still loved you.
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tia_logic reviewed Version 1 -
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“almost a year later, after similar phone calls as the babysitter is having” awkward. I’d think of rephrasing—after phone calls like that of the babysitter’s or something.
“on my end, at least, much happier ” the reader can’t get behind the emotion here. I don’t know whether you were ecstatic and she didn’t care, or you were both happy or what—it comes off bitter as it stands. I’d think about leaving it out. SImplify.
“nor you stopped at the food..” I’d think about finding another way to say all these thoughts. Maybe less specific detail (just ‘the market’). ‘Nor” is correct, but awkward. I’d think about breaking up the thoughts.
“I am referring to the essence of what I know myself to be loving the essence of what I perhaps assumed you to be” You’re trying too hard. Simplify! Maybe something like ‘I loved the ‘you’ I thought you were’ or ‘the ‘you’ I invented’ know what I mean?
“If you’re inclined to read the book, read it and know that I believe it and have tried and failed at loving you the way I see you as deserving to be loved because the you I know, and the you I loved is the you God knows and the you God loves; I loved the God in you and you in God and now I think in past tense.” Simplify! Just say what you mean, don’t over think it so much. If you use the word you everytime you refer to you or someone else, you end up losing your reader, not to mention you lose the value of you, you know? :)
Overwhelmingly, I see this: If you want this piece to be published as a series of letters, it has to be written in a way that’s accessible to the reader who doesn’t know you. Hi! I don’t know you—this isn’t accessible. If you intend it solely as a letter to a person who knows you and the events, then it’s perfect. It can’t be both as-is though. Editing needs to be done if you want it public.
Watch contradictions. You start the piece saying you may still love her, but wouldn’t admit it (though you just did) and end it by saying you love and loved her.
Keep working on your clarity, and ou’ll be fine.
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Lizabeth reviewed Version 1 -
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Okay, if you really want a critique of the writing:
1) Cliche: “Cold December night” is a cliche. It’s fine, but it’s expected. You have sprinkled several more cliches throughout the piece. There are a few that are actually strange metaphors, like being swept up in someone’s eyes. That’s a pretty common metaphorical phrase, but it’s just not a good image. Think about it: someone’s sweeping you across the floor into another person’s eyes? Or the pupil flings out and pulls you in. :P
2) Nice repetition of “I remember.” It’s a little common, but I love phrasal repetition.
3) There’s a few typos here and there. You might want to Google “self-editing tips” for information about finding these kinds of things if you don’t have someone who can edit (or “beta”) for you. I’m sure it’s annoying to have someone point out grammatical errors when you really want a writing critique. (I’m guilty of that myself.)
4) You’re a little too vague about some things. This is fine for a journal entry, but a reader wants to understand, to feel “in” on things.
5) Some of the statements are a little non-sensical. For example: “Today I watched the showroom. I assume I know why.” That just doesn’t make sense.
Hope that’s helpful!
I assume this is a letter that won’t be sent, since you say (or the speaker says) something about not admitting something you just said.
JDAnon reviewed Version 1 -
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This is a very personal account of falling in love.
It’s sweet, it’s romatic and it’s also quite sad in places- touching.
Again I feel as though is really plucked straight out of first hand experience which give the piece added emotion and realism- the details are much, much more accurate and specific than in a lot of non-fiction.
The writing style and technique is also solid- writing is hard, writing first hand, even if it based in reality is much harder- it can be difficult to really acheive a feeling of realism, which as I’ve mentioned, has been acheived beautifully.
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