InsaneJournal

TO: Daniel Webster (needapenname@netmail.com)
FROM: C. Davis (davisc@publishinghouse.net)
SUBJECT: Dreaming that sylvan peace

Mr. Webster:

I offer an olive branch.

It isn't an apology, because I'm not acknowledging any wrongdoing. However, if we're to work together, it's probably a good idea for us to understand one another, our nuances and peaks and valleys.

I was born in a state where everyone has Southern twangs, but yet I have none. I was very young when I realized that books could do the most magical things, like make me a princess or a pirate or a little girl with siblings galore and Peter Pan around the bend waiting for me. It was a silly thing, or so my parents believed, but they humored me, as parents do when it means their child will stay quiet when they have a headache or are embroiled in the fighting that passes for true love in this day and age.

As I got older, I found that the words on a page could be experiences in a completely different way. They could teach and make you realize the complexity of people. We walk through our lives with blinders on, not stopping to look at anyone else unless it suits us or is necessary, but in books we don't do that. We turn the pages, and we care about our fellow man in a way we never do in real life. We wonder about their motives, and we cheer for their successes and cry when they lose. It's a connection so profound, and one we seem unwilling to make face-to-face. Why do you think that is?

For instance, if a strange man was hiding and eating your food, you would call the authorities. But in Frankenstein, we root for Victor's creation, we want him to succeed, to be loved, to not unintentionally harm. And when he does unintentionally harm a young child, we feel pity for him, and we blame Victor for what he did. In the day-to-day world, we wouldn't be so forgiving. Why is our compassion limited to the page instead of to real, feeling people who need it?

Why do you write? What drives you to it? When did you begin?

I first took pen to paper when I was eight. I was at the local library, and I was reading a story. It was Marianna Mayer's version of Beauty and the Beast and the illustrations and the words, they filled my head with dreams of things no book had ever done in quite the same way. I'd always been a reader, but this book, it changed something significant in me. It was the first book I begged my parents to buy me, and I still own the copy. It's worse for wear and looks like it should have been used for kindling years and years ago, but I can't bear to part with it. The day I read that tale, I went home, and I wrote the most atrocious story you could ever imagine. It was about a princess who disliked traveling, and it was a silly thing of no merit. But I sat at my desk with pencil and paper for hours, and I became lost in the words in a way I'd never been. And I fell in love with writing that day, and I never looked back.

Am I a writer? That depends. Do you consider authorship to be based on skill or on passion? If passion, I qualify. If skill, perhaps not. But it doesn't mean I can't pinpoint a fantastic story on the page, nor does it mean I can't help make a story better. I don't want your glory, nor do I want to control your pen. I do want to be a part of what you're creating. It might be selfish of me, but there you have it.

As Albert Einstein said: "I am neither especially clever nor especially gifted. I am only very, very curious." Were the quote mine, I would add and opinionated at the end.

Curiously and opinionated(ly),
C. Davis

P.S. Do tell me what you think of the story. I'll withhold my opinion on whether I like or dislike it, so your opinion can be untarnished.

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