Letter to Four-Years-Older-Self
Congratulations, Graduate!
I am very proud of your endeavors, struggles, work ethic, and so on and so forth. That's a bunch of blah. What I am really proud of you for is pursuing your writing career and getting that book published! That's just great.
If you did not, in fact, get that book published, then congratulations on whatever else you happened to have done, even though I couldn't care less since it's not writing (or fame). I'm hoping boarding school helps us out; I hope it made a difference in your life. Reflect for a moment on your older life; on my life now. Middle school sucks like nothing else, and I sincerely hope high school is better, especially at the beautiful school on the beach. Lucky you. 7th grade was the absolute worst year of my life (I'm hoping you still agree), but 8th grade seems to have gone by too fast. That evil, horrid, ugly, hag of a teacher is behind you now by four years, but she is still fresh in my memory. Sorry for making you remember her. But the friends we had were all great, if a bit nerdy, and if you remember (which you better) there was no friend better than Joanna. She's probably still with that one dude, you know, the one we hated. The one I still hate....which might be why you don't remember her. If you do, show her this letter, and tell her that I think she's the best friend ever, but I hated her boyfriend. She helped me through the hell of middle school, and I am forever in debt to her.
Now, back on the subject of your passion, your talent: writing. Remember when you were seven and going through that I-suck-and-no-one-else-seems-to-suck-because-I-am-not-good-at-anything phase? For a while it was opera singing and such, mostly because your cousin (who is probably a famous singer by now) was good at something and you wanted to outshine her. Well, people's ears are still bleeding because of it, and that ended quickly. Then came horses, which you had always been good with and ridden since the age of three, but your passion for them died out quickly as the need to be cool came in to replace it. You liked to brag about your travels, about being all around the world and having rich parents, but bragging wasn't so much of a talent as a knack to annoy people out of their skulls. Then came acting. Acting was the very first thing you were good at, and I'm hoping that your four years at high school were filled with it. Acting introduced you to attention from others; their applause at the end, their admiration and pride for what you had done. You loved the attention, as I do now, and as I'm sure you still do. So, when 4th grade came around and you had two best friends who were great at writing, outshining them became your only goal. It was not passion for the subject that drove you to practice and write day and night. It was not vivid imagination that allowed you to pursue beyond what they could. It was bragging rights; for you, your parents, and some day your friends. Nothing but the attention from others made you want to master writing.
And so began your life.
Right now, as you are reading this, I would hope that if you began a story now you would marvel at the way the words fell together as if by a happy accident. You would write and rewrite a phrase until its essence could be smelt and felt and seen. I would hope that you would with your heart and occasionally your head, but never your desire for attention. I would hope you would hold the story in your head until it is ripe for picking, instead of writing it down immediately because you so much enjoy instant gratification. I hope, as Walter Wellesley so wisely said, sitting down to write would be like opening your vein. Because I hope that someday writing becomes more than just a way of being great, of having a talent, of looking for a career. I hope it becomes a passion, a love affair with words.
Still beautiful or not, 5AM swims or not, violin or not, smart or not. I hope that writing is with you, all of it's heart and soul and essence, and that there is never a 'or not'.
Truly Yours,
Chloe
Writing is both mask and unveiling. ~E.B. White