shelf

There are a bunch of people in the world who would say that they were born with a certain talent. Some of them call themselves, and each other, poets and writers. Just to keep others out. It's bullshit. Anyone can write. But to get good at it, you need to practice. Get up early and sit in your chair, stop whining and write. Here are: Seven things you can write.

The best love letter I ever wrote was a hate mail. I had met a girl who was a few years older than me and I had fallen head over heels in love with her. She was complicated, nuanced and had been through things I hadn’t been. I adored her and her uncompromising integrity. I thought she was absolutely magical. And based on the classic cosmic rules she hurt me over and over again by dumping me. After the tenth time I had had enough. My torso was minced meat from all the knife blows. So I decided not to try again.

Instead, I sat down and wrote a long letter to her about all the things that she wouldn’t know about me. All the things she wouldn’t get to hear me tell. Everything she would miss out on when she kept dumping me time and time again. I told her my two favorite colors. I told her about my aunt who set fire to herself to escape her husband's beatings and the two children who remained in their father's violent (lack of) care. I talked about how my parents met. About my nightmares as a child. About my nightmares as an adult. I told her about the obsessive thought I have as to which chair to sit in when I walk into a room. I told her that I had broken my hand twice. And that I hate penicillin.

All this I wrote in a letter. I didn’t dare send it to her. Instead, I formulated the beginning of the letter so that I could read it to her answering machine. I sat next to the phone and found the courage to call. My hands were totally sweaty. My body shook and I was one second from calling her. I held the phone in my hand when it began to vibrate. Her name appeared on the screen.

I answered.

It was quiet.

- Sorry, she said.

Then we started from scratch. I told her that she couldn’t keep behaving like that. She apologized again. Then we moved in together. Then she proposed. Then she gave birth to our daughter.

Text: Navid Modiri