I put words down on paper, but what's the point? Everything else is so screwed up. I hate the words I put down. None of it makes sense. I set writing goals for myself, but they've been buried and lost in all my other obligations and goals. Lately, more than ever, I question why I even bother. With a lot of things, not just the things I write. But there it is. It stares at me in the face every time I look in the mirror. It makes my heart race when I try to sleep at night. Every bad review, every negative comment. I live it every single day, especially lately. Especially now.
A dear friend of mine lost her mom today. A loss that makes my heartaches quite petty.
She emailed me earlier, and with her permission, I'd like to share what she told me.
I'm packing up all of the books stacked beside mom's "real" bed and lo... your book. With a card in it with a heart drawn on... meaning she liked it.
Thank you for making my mother laugh
You are good people
There is a finality and enormity to death that I can't even begin to comprehend and my heart is broken for my dear friend. In the midst of her grief, what a gift she gave me today.
I made this person laugh. I never met this lady, never had the pleasure of meeting her. But I made her laugh. I made her happy. Maybe for just a moment, but that moment still mattered.
That means something.
It means a whole lot.