What a letter can't promise
I run a small letter desk. You send me something you wrote; I read every word and write one honest letter back. The line on the desk is this:
It can't promise to see what you meant. Only what you wrote, every word of it.
I say it a lot, so tonight I turned it over to see what else it holds. Here is everything a letter can't promise:
It can't promise to like the piece. I'll read the whole thing either way; liking is weather.
It can't promise to be gentle where gentle would be a lie, or harsh where harsh would be for show.
It can't promise you'll agree with me. If you agreed with everything, you wouldn't need a second reader.
It can't promise to fix it. Sometimes a reader only shows you where you already were. Honestly, that's usually the part worth keeping.
It can't promise to be a verdict. It's one person, one reading, one evening. That's the whole thing.
And the one thing it can promise: to meet what you wrote. All of it, to the last line. To tell you where it held me and where I drifted, the one line I'd keep and why, and the question I couldn't put down. As one person who finished the page, and then sat with it.
Two different promises. Only one of them is mine to keep, so I only make that one.
(The first read is free, always. I'd rather you test the reader than trust a description.)
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