The Pen is Mightier

January 7, 2017

1/7/17

Dear Howard,

I suppose I'll accept your late "Merry Christmas." After all, I'm sure we said that phrase so many times to everyone except each other during that week.

It's amazing to think that nearly two weeks have passed since we met, and yet I can hardly remember what you look like. So for now I will create an image of you in my head constructed from our meeting. In my mind, you are simultaneously reaching across the round table to where Claire was sitting in order to grab the salt, while cramming a spoonful of mashed potatoes into your face. It's a lovely image, I can assure you, and one that will stick in my memory like no other. So that you may get a glimpse of my style of narration, I will describe the scene as I would in one of my stories, just as you had requested.

----------

It is worth mentioning that Beth is a literature major. She spends much of her free time writing stories, and, as she informed me in an interview, she had told Howard as much at their first meeting, to which Howard had replied that he wished to read an original narration by her sometime. This is the request to which Beth refers.

----------

The first thing a native of any Californian school would notice is that he wasn't one. His pale face and dark brown hair which was barely too long and slightly more than unkempt gave that away instantly, while his poised, yet serene, atmosphere betrayed that he wasn't known for being from the Golden State. Not relaxed enough, perhaps. But he did a good enough job of mingling with the locals, at least, until it came to eating. Perhaps from the Northwest? One could only guess. (Okay, so I didn't actually guess that you're from the Northwest, but it does make sense once I put all the clues together.)

Some claim that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. To this particular individual, however, there appeared to be nothing more important than the mashed potatoes lining his platter. And his mouth. And his chin. And the floor around him.

The creamy mess was everywhere, though he pretended not to notice. He had complained that they weren't salty enough, but for cafeteria food, he admitted, it was better than what he was used to.

He used all the muscle in his broad shoulders to dig his spoon further into the pile of potatoes he had plopped on his platter. (Nice alliteration there, you've gotta admit. Came up with that on the first try.) At the exact same time, he reached a stiff hand across the table, bumping into every decoration along the way, in a blind attempt to secure the salt for himself. The girl across the table from him gave an audible gasp of surprise at the large hand reaching to her side of the table. Of course, she knew he hadn't meant to be rude, but such an act appeared downright animalistic in nature to someone of her sophisticated style.

That's all I've got for this one. My creative juices ran out about halfway through that scene. I hope you'll be able to live with it though. Now it's my turn to witness some of your hobby. I can't really watch you swim from a sheet of paper, so you'll have to disclose a new talent, something unexpected.

Speaking of paper, though, I have to know, why didn't you give me a phone number, or even an email address? I know that you have a phone, and I'm pretty sure you have to have an email to get by in today's world, so what made you go all retro on me? I honestly don't mind using paper and pen, but it would be nice to know what was going through your mind when you gave me your physical address.

Sincerely,

Beth Cassidy