Dear That Time I Ran Through The Fountain On The Greenway,
Thanks for existing as you do, in the middle of summer 2012, late at night and a little hazy from free festival wine. I think that on some level, the freedom and buzzing exuberance I felt (before, during and after you took place) propelled me boldly through my 25th birthday and into this brave new re-adventure.
I'm giving myself one more crack at this publishing game and whenever that starts to scare me, I think of you and remember that the best writers live wild and well. Parts of me have slunk or gotten chipped away these past few difficult years and your memory never fails to reconnect me - even momentarily - to my deepest, truest, most alive self.
Also, you are one of my favorite Boston memories to date.
Also, I love that a man in a wheelchair flew through the fountain just as I was leaving. He not only makes you a more completely perfect story to tell, but his abandon makes me feel extra brave.
I owe you one,
Where did this weirdness come from?
Lately, I have become so enthralled by this writer that she seems to have seeped into my brainwaves. I've started thinking in thank-you note form. And as a firm believer in a good thank-you note - and all forms of gratitude - I am really quite okay with that.
Do I hope that I eventually am able to think and write normally?
Sure, but in due time.