Lost Love Letters Found

I kept everything. I typed up what I wanted to say to the bad boyfriend, the lost love, the mistake… really thought about it before I sent an email. And when it was a conversation over IM, I copied it into a document and titled it with his name and the date. Usually. There are a couple email drafts that I figured out from context, and could only pin down to the nearest six months or so. Who would I send a letter to that started, “Yeah, you’ve been in the doghouse for a while”? Firstly, I don’t put men in the doghouse; we were together or we were done. Secondly, who could I say that to, among my equally cut-and-dried love interests, and get away with it?

There’s an eviction notice authored by my then-friend, now-fiance, stipulating (among other things) better fish tank maintenance as a condition for a roommate’s continued tenancy. The tank was sparkling clean. It was fifty gallons and held two silver hatchets and a half-pound rock. The notice demanded gravel, plants and more fish friends. There’s no way this isn’t material.

That must be why I kept it all. Surely, someday, I would care that that one guy and I made up, in a way. Maybe it would be important that my last, bleeding letter to him got a surprisingly kind and honest response. And even if I didn’t care anymore, someone might. Someone who’s going through something like it might enjoy reading a story with that kind of ending: not exactly happy, but at least resolved. And surely such a story should include a roommate who keeps two guppy-sized fish in a fifty gallon tank. Breaking hearts need some comic relief.

Now I just have to organize it all. I left myself a treasure hunt, with letters ‘to’ in a different folder than letters ‘from’, not to mention that some aspects of some relationships got their own folder… wow, I must be weird. Or a writer; that’s a good excuse. Do any of you have files or boxes full of stuff like this? I’ve heard that people keep old love letters. Do you?

I Like Money, Really

The parent of the kid I’m coaching emailed me today about payment. Yay! I like money. I say that even though I’m going into a profession that rewards about 1% of its practitioners with life-sustaining income. Or so I was told by my advanced creative writing professor. Teaching was (and still is) her day job.  That could be me someday. I like this coaching gig. The kid’s writing improves noticably with each new story, and I love seeing that.

So now I’m back to that Big Question: do I want to write novels, or do I want to make money? I could expand my coaching services. I could apply for a newspaper or magazine job. Any of those options would keep me close to writing… but would it be close enough? I do like the idea of making money. I am looking forward to getting paid; it’s something I could stand to look forward to more often. But would I have time to write? Would I have the energy after a long, bad day? Can my interest in becoming a novelist stand up to the ordinary trials of life? If it can’t, do I deserve to be an author?

Just for reference: a writer is someone who writes. An author is someone whose work has been published. I’ll answer my own questions: I could find the time. If I found it in the morning, the length and badness of the rest of the day would be irrelevant. Yes, I can hack it; I won NaNoWriMo two years ago in the midst of a busy time at work. People get what they don’t deserve all the time. If I work at writing, then maybe I’ll get published and deserve it, too.

Maybe I’ll even get paid.

Word Count 2

2477 Friday-Thursday, 860 high. One day missed in addition to “weekend”. Woof.

Next week: same goal. 1500 words per day, five out of seven days.