My mother and grandmother taught me to write thank you notes.
Yesterday my 40 year old son-in-law gave me a birthday gift of a subscription to your writing via text message.
I thanked him via a text message
I read your last post first.
I send my son-in-law another text.
"How did you find him?"
Via Twitter, he replies.
Ahh, yes. Double thank. you. My son-in-law knows I could not find you there.
This morning, I wake up and find the button on your page cleverly marked "archive". Click. Many more gifts. So many to open. Thank god.
I begin reading, last post first. Then another. And another. I get to this one and read the sentence containing the phrase "...every Raymond Carver story." I know I have to write a thank you note to you but first I have to stop to find a kitchen towel to mop up the shock crying one spontaneously splatters whilst watching the Olympics and is startled in the deep place of a heart shocked whilst witnessing the brilliance of uncommon humans. (Speaking of $, perhaps thee could generate passive income by asking your readers to perform a flash mob public service and altogether now convince municipalities to add your newsletter for use when mechanical defibrillators on Medic 911 vans cannot bring someone back to life.)
You embody what can - but rarely does - happen if the brilliance of one gifted human takes formation, practices, practices, practices, aims and hits the letters in the alphabet in such a way that what results is shockingly magnificent, beautiful, heart breaking and heart mending beyond measure.
I am an old woman.
I have been brought back to life.
I don't believe in God, but I do know when I'm in love.
The cancel culture is new to me. Too much social media.
Dear Mr. Elliott,
My mother and grandmother taught me to write thank you notes.
Yesterday my 40 year old son-in-law gave me a birthday gift of a subscription to your writing via text message.
I thanked him via a text message
I read your last post first.
I send my son-in-law another text.
"How did you find him?"
Via Twitter, he replies.
Ahh, yes. Double thank. you. My son-in-law knows I could not find you there.
This morning, I wake up and find the button on your page cleverly marked "archive". Click. Many more gifts. So many to open. Thank god.
I begin reading, last post first. Then another. And another. I get to this one and read the sentence containing the phrase "...every Raymond Carver story." I know I have to write a thank you note to you but first I have to stop to find a kitchen towel to mop up the shock crying one spontaneously splatters whilst watching the Olympics and is startled in the deep place of a heart shocked whilst witnessing the brilliance of uncommon humans. (Speaking of $, perhaps thee could generate passive income by asking your readers to perform a flash mob public service and altogether now convince municipalities to add your newsletter for use when mechanical defibrillators on Medic 911 vans cannot bring someone back to life.)
You embody what can - but rarely does - happen if the brilliance of one gifted human takes formation, practices, practices, practices, aims and hits the letters in the alphabet in such a way that what results is shockingly magnificent, beautiful, heart breaking and heart mending beyond measure.
I am an old woman.
I have been brought back to life.
I don't believe in God, but I do know when I'm in love.
Thank you kindly,
Old Woman