One day I wrote, edited and sent a letter of 372 words in 32 minutes or less.
It had the length of a blog article. It had a prologue, body and ending. It had all the stages of life: birth, life, illness and death. It had a clear story arc and a vanquished hero. It was urgent; it needed desperately to be told. It was comfortable with whatever it could not say. It was comfortable with the message that it did say, gently conveyed.
It filled me with centralized cohesion. It left me with the familiar satisfaction of having something done, something important, but with the humble sincerity of an eager servant.
It felt like something that might influence someone's major decisions over the span of his life. It was written for a specific and true "Dear Reader,” dedicated to a muse; someone for whom I longed to labor and remember and love.
It was, if I remember correctly, how writing was supposed to be.
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