Hello, and welcome to another Letter to Myself. As always, these are letters to my past/present/future self, but you are more than welcome to read along with me, in the hopes that something lands.
Dear author brain,
I know what you're thinking: there are a thousand more meaningful, productive things we could be doing in this world. After all, our books are nothing more than a nice way to while away a few afternoons... but how would you react if I said they were something more?
How many days have we spent, losing ourselves in someone else's fantasy world, because our present reality was too painful? How many hours have we enjoyed exploring the landscape of worlds our feet would never touch? And how much has that time meant to us?
Beyond that, we're currently writing our EDS into a book; putting our physical pain onto the page, so other people can see themselves there. Can you even honestly say how much it would have meant to see your condition in a book as a teen? Does that sound like a waste of time?
I won't lie, there are thousands of jobs more productive, necessary, and useful. People who are feeding the hungry, and sheltering the endangered... but that does not mean that what we are doing isn't important too.
Never forget that the mind needs to be nourished with fiction, and never forget that stories matter.
Sincerely,
Your tired, confused, semi-drafting brain.
That's it for this week!
Have a great day, and keep writing!
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