Almost Lost

Everything on this blog survived by accident. Reused, ignored, overwritten. The words that almost didn't make it are the ones we still get to read.

I also write letters for people: the words that almost don't get said. Held back by politeness, or timing, or fear.

The trouble with selling letters is that nobody should buy one they can't read first. So here's one, on the house.

Dear you,

You've asked four people what to do. Their answers are folded in your pocket with yours, and the one you keep reopening isn't theirs.

So let me be the fifth, and skip the part you came for.

You don't need advice. You need someone to say out loud what you already decided, so it stops being a secret you're keeping from yourself. So here it is: you're going to do it. You knew before you started asking.

I won't tell you it's safe. It isn't. Someone who loves you will be scared for you, and one of them will say the sentence that stings. You'll survive that too. You survived saying it to yourself.

And one thing I can give that the other four can't: permission. Not to go. To stop asking.

Yours, Shawn

That's the sound of a letter from me. A real one is written for your situation: 300 to 600 words within 48 hours, two rounds of notes, no flattery. Letters start at $10.

If you want one, write to [email protected] and tell me what it's for.