Darling,
There are a lot of things writing can't do.
It can't give me superpowers. When I write, I do not become invisible nor do I find myself levitating above my seat. It cannot make a room quiet. It cannot transport me somewhere different. It cannot cleanse the anger from my heart, nor can it cure your cancer.
Writing will not make you well again. It won't present me with a magical sum of money to pay your hospital bills, not unless I manage to get published and, even more unlikely, end up being a bestseller. It won't find me a good, reliable babysitter to watch the kids while you are in the hospital and I am with you. Writing won't tell me what to do. It won't give me answers.
And I know, okay? I know it won't do anything. I know nothing will come of it. I know it's not good. I know that no publisher in their right mind would take me on and I know that my hours spent pecking at my keyboard, scrawling over notebooks, and tapping at my phone will amount to hours wasted. I know because I have been told before, many, many times.
Have you noticed how much your family likes to help me manage my time? Maybe instead of that, you could fix dinner, hm? Yes, I suppose I could, but so could you. Perhaps you should get off the computer and help Tiago with his homework, don't you think? He's a big boy, I'm sure he can do it himself. Oh, there you are. Why don't you stop typing and load the dishwasher? Goddammit, I don't want to.
It comes down to that, really. I don't want to stop, so I won't.
My writing is the only thing that's really mine. Everything else, I have to share. My house, my meals, my children, you. Nothing belongs solely to me anymore. Nothing but this, my writing.
So if you find this, my love, I am asking you (begging you) not to read it. Really, you shouldn't be snooping on my computer or my notebooks anyway. We agreed on that.
However, I know you and I know that this note has probably not deterred you. In fact, it has probably only made you more curious. So before you go on reading, I want to tell you that if you notice any correlation between characters and people we happen to know in real life, it is pure coincidence.
Honestly, my fear is that you will read too much into this. You have to remember, this is exactly what it seems like: a silly pirate story by a tired woman who barely passed high school English. There's no deep metaphor here, no subliminal text for you to pick up. It's just a story, Enrique. Just my story.
But seriously. Don't read it. It's bad. Also, stop going through my laptop.
Love,
Emma
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Face Of The Monster
قصص عامةEmma Ramos is a closeted writer who hides her work from everyone, including her husband Enrique who is dying of brain cancer and her two children Tiago and Cande. She is a professional hairdresser and classically trained Woman Who Would Like To Be L...
