I'm writing because...

Week 4 of my eight week exploration of writing and life

Dear T,

I am writing because we don’t talk anymore. Not unless we’re standing in a doorway or sitting on the sidelines of another ball game. Not unless there is a car window or a phone screen or a lifetime between us.

Photo by Joy Juliet Gallagher

I am writing because it’s been years since I left, and I still can’t figure out if I chose to leave or if you left me no choice. But we both know we can’t leave each other. Not really. Not unless we left the kids too, which neither of us would do.

Sometimes I think about that moment in college, when we were drinking beers on folding chairs in front of the dorms we called the “New Apartments” even though they’d been around long enough to grow mold.

“I want to be a dad by the time I’m 26,” you said. I spit my beer out on the lawn.

“26?!” You shrugged.

“I want to be young. My dad was too old. I want to have enough energy to keep up with my kids.”

We weren’t dating; we barely even knew each other yet. We were just two people lingering outside on the first warm night of spring. And yet when you said those words, somehow I knew they were important. Somehow I knew they had something to do with me. We were 31 when J was born. Even that sounds too young now.

I’m writing because I never asked: Do you have enough energy?

I am writing to say I’m sorry and I forgive you, though there was a time that I thought I never would. Maybe forgiveness is just another word for forgetting after all. Not forgetting everything, just forgetting how it all felt. I don’t want to forget everything.

Do you?

How do you say goodbye to someone who is still right here? How do you keep talking when there’s nothing left to say? What crumbs did we drop that might lead me back to where we began? I’m writing to answer all these questions, and more.

Because I never wanted to leave. Not really. But leaving was the only way I knew how to keep myself from falling into a life I’d never be able to crawl out of. I was so afraid of losing myself that it never occurred to me that it was possible to lose you. Not so completely. Not after everything.

That night, drinking beers as the sun went down, I never would have imagined this moment. Twenty years later, another warm spring night, another set of folding chairs. The two of us again, side-by-side, watching our oldest son pitch the last inning of a tied game. How is it possible that we have nothing left to say?

I’m writing because there must be more to say. Because words are like families, I think. They can go on forever, if you let them. They don’t have to run out.

---

Week 4: The Exercise

I wrote the piece of flash nonfiction above during Jeannine Ouellette’s Writing in the Dark School, a yearlong writing intensive I did last year, which is now open for new members. The prompt came from a close read of the opening paragraphs of Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We Were Briefly Gorgeous, which you can read here. If you do read Vuong’s opening (and I hope you will because it’s stunning), you will see how the structure I use above echoes his piece, though our subjects are very different. Vuong is addressing his mother, and I am talking to my ex-husband.

I love the simplicity of this exercise and how quickly it enables me to cut through the noise and write something that surprises even myself. (I talked about how important it is to surprise yourself in your writing back in week two of this eight-week writing exploration.)

There are two versions of this week’s prompts: one where the instructions are quick and easy, and a slightly more detailed prompt for those who want more structure or a challenge.

Whichever version you choose to do, don’t overthink it. Let the words flow; see where they take you. When you’re done, reread it. What words, images, memories or questions surfaced? Where did you surprise yourself, and why?

Option A: Write a letter to someone you struggle with. They could be in your life now, or in the past. Begin the letter with “Dear X, I’m writing because…”

Option B: Write a letter to someone in your life who you see often but don’t always feel like you can say everything you’d like to say to. Include the following in your piece. You can stick to this order, or switch it up.

• I am writing because…

• Sometimes I think about…

• How do you…

• I never wanted…

• I am writing to say…

---

Feel free to post your writing below, or just let me know how it went. Or just say hi. Comments from readers mean the world to me and help more people find my newsletter. I am always grateful to know you’re following along and love to hear from you.

Resources

• Writing in the Dark by Jeannine Ouellette

• Craft School

• On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong