Just So You Know

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
I write for myself, once therapeutic, now habit. I am what I write, and have no desire to prove otherwise.

Submitted: October 08, 2014

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Submitted: October 08, 2014



Just so you know.

I’ve suffered the wrath of the amateur critics, those telling me my words are nothing but flowery phrases. Did they ever stop to think? Did they assume I could just pick my words out of the sky, those ones floating above my head, simply to bring them down and scribble them onto paper? Dear God, what I would give to think that true, instead of ringing them out of my hurt or happiness, my understanding or not understanding, the tears I used for ink when I was young and naive, listening to the false laughter of success.

Do you want to know how difficult I am, how bloody minded, arrogant, how selfish I can be? Do you want to know how my legs feel when someone says: ‘thank you for what you’ve written, thank you for those words, they mean a lot to me?’

I’ll tell you, I fall apart. I go to pieces because I don’t know how to say well enough what I want to say, how to make them understand how complimented and humble I feel. Because the very words ‘thank you’ reduce me to tears. So I crush them with a throw-away line, a cynical catch-phrase, or a thread of sharp arrogance, because no-one will ever know how touched I am, how much that ‘thank you’ means to me, how I could fall apart right in front of them, or want to hug them.

I don’t understand, I don’t understand so many things, so I write, that’s all. I write because I don’t know.

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