A Letter To A Young Writer From Another

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A Letter To A Young Writer From Another

Dear Young Writer,

I want you to know something I’ve always known my entire life:

All good writers are depressed.

Not so much sad,

But feeling pressed

Under the constant thought capitulating continuously from being fought,

“I’m not good enough. This is never going to be good enough.”

If you want to be a writer there isn’t a right or wrong way,

To write is to cast an open mic session on your heart and your head.

It’s simple but effective in the ways you word things most commonly said

Into things that sing tunes that have never been written.

I’m beginning my letter to you with the words said a million and one times

And right now it’s a million and two,

But it means that number multiplied to me and hopefully to you.

It’s that:

Ernest Hemingway once said, “Live life to the fullest”

So if the fullest for you is vacationing to a world of words that paint the picture of lives and people you wished you knew,

Then there is no other answer but to write.

What I’m trying to do for you is not just to inspire the hearth in which you spark your fire and love of writing,

But also a chance for you to see what writing can do

For you and for the people who surround around you just to see you use a pool of syllables that sound like honey you crushed in the palm of your hand and bled onto a paper.

Young writer, I want to let you know as my own worst critic and as your friend,

That you’re worth every word you scratched out, looked up,

Spit into a world other than the one you’re already in.

So begin, young writer.

I want you to begin.

When you were a kid, I bet you would sit at a desk and make up stories;

I know because I did the same.

I created every city, town, name, and damsel in distress

Trying her best just to save the town that had a name I no longer can remember.

You see, when you were a kid it was easy to squeeze in make believe with a piece of lined paper;

You found yourself creating scenes and dreams worth living,

You were giving every second of playtime to writing up mini stories

And you called it:

Pretend.

But when you got older and the world unfolded beneath your fingertips,

The word “pretend” slipped somewhere in between a crack of growing up

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