i received an email the other day regarding my writing

it always makes me curious, makes me think of how it must have been in the old days when someone would pen a letter and mail the query to someone else

days waiting for the letter to arrive wondering if it would be read or ignored, tossed into the trash with all the other junk mail and advertisements

i take emails that aren’t spam quite seriously

maybe too seriously unless i know the other party quite well

which i usually don’t

as a loner and mostly hermit that has near zero contact with the world around me any type of contact is to be cherished

this one was interesting to me

it was a long letter from someone that clearly read too much of my ramblings

i say clearly because they knew more of my lines than i do

they wanted to know how i write so much every single day

i didn’t have an answer, at least not a good one so i told the simple truth

everything is poetry whether you can see it or not

every diverse emotion, every random scene, in the most obtuse of settings there is an undercurrent of words waiting to be brought to the surface

then i reread my words and realized it sounded pretentious so i erased it all and said another truth

there is something wrong in my head

felt less succinct but just as honest

so here you go

a second truth for you, one i ran away from originally

thanks for the email, thanks for caring

to answer your other questions:

yes, yes, no, maybe, yes, she is better than i ever dreamt, yes, yes, no, i wouldn’t know where to begin

hope that clears things up