originally posted on cohost (rip)

when i got your letter it was different, it was like nothing i'd ever read before. because after i swam my eyes over the words, i set it down on the carpet and pressed my palms into my eyes and breathed in deep.

and then i picked it up and read it again. slowly, this time, mouthing the words one by one until i stopped because i felt stupid. i drummed my nails on the back of the cardstock, my heart started pounding, and i suddenly realized that my eyes were still and the words that filled my mind weren't the ones coming off your letter, but my mind preemptively coming up with a response, preparing for a conversation i wasn't ready to have.

i was freaking myself out. i forced myself to stop and placed the letter back in the plain white envelope. the kind of long envelope you place bills in. the envelope went in between the novel i was never gonna read. the book went in a drawer in my bedside table. i shut my eyes to go to sleep.

i dreamt of a bottomless dungeon.

years passed before i rediscovered that letter. i started writing again. i told people i started writing again, which surprised them, because i never advertised myself that way before. i found new company. people who would ask me questions like, "who's your favorite writer?" and "what's a book that you've read over and over again?" and "what's a story that everyone should read?"

questions i felt vaguely guilty about being unable to answer. not because i felt that it undermined my own ability, but because a long time ago, i could answer them. i'd drown people in passion and people loved that. people watched that. i thought words were like gems, rough and raw, and you had to work to cut them. you had to shave and bleed.

i'm turning your book over in my hands. when you sent me the manuscript, a long time ago, i felt sorry that i couldn't see anything in it, couldn't muster up any passion for it. i kept talking to myself. i took it personally. in a paranoid bout, i was momentarily convinced that you had written it to defraud me, to prove that i was nothing but a crowd pleaser, a fake fan of everybody whose work i loved. i felt like that king, egotistical and lonely. all powerful and pitiful. if i didn't love you, did i ever love anything?

in your story, a king longs to abandon his duties to become a poet. he pens a long letter to the most famous poet in his kingdom asking for secret lessons, and she agrees under one condition—to be able to sit in on his council meetings.

she treats him as she would any other student, and the king is as grateful as he is bothered by her mercilessness. when he attends his council meetings, it's her presence that pushes him to make stronger decisions, even when he hates his work, hates the responsibility put on him, and the overwhelming dread that this kingdom is doomed no matter what he does.

war descends upon them. the king, seeing as he's being carefully guarded, is no longer able to attend his lessons. but he cannot stop writing. he writes through long nights, the longest he's ever experienced. he writes through the toughest decisions, decisions he can't believe he's being forced to make. he resents the poet for pressuring him to stay. and then he resents poetry for failing to change the world. and he resents that he resents the one thing he ever let himself love.

i'm turning to that chapter now. it's the one where he finally meets the poet again and they have that long dreary conversation. except it's not dreary, and what i see now is a depth of expression that sits with me. sits with me like us sitting on the rooftop at midnight and bouncing lyrics off of each other.

it was so different, with you. i didn't cut myself on words, they flowed as a babbling brook and now i see how they sparkle. i think i can read you now, i'm ready to start speaking again.