When one begins studying the craft of writing, it doesn’t take long to stumble upon the suggestion to write a letter to yourself from your protagonist.

I don’t remember the first place I’ve read that, but I’ve read it a dozen other places since. Unfortunately, that is the best credit I can give. Here’s mine, I hope you enjoy it.


Dear Mr. Writer Person,

It comes to my attention that you have penned miles of ink on the topic of my, and my family’s, personal affairs. I don’t know what you think you are trying to do, but it won’t work. Why? Because you kind of suck. I read your nonsensical blog, and let me say, no wonder you are worried about what goes on in my life; clearly there isn’t much going on in your own. What do you have, like, 2 or 5 web hits a day? That is not very impressive.

If you are going to write about my affairs, I hope you get paid for it, though I doubt you will, hope you don’t, I mean.

What happened to my son, while it may be have been a national media frenzy, I wish you would stop reopening the wound every time you sit down at the MacBook.

I’ll cut to the chase: Where is my son? I know you think I know, but what if I told you I didn’t. Just because you forced me to interact with the evil spirit who controlled me for a time, doesn’t mean that I am consciously aware of what happened.

While I’m in the hospital, they will only give me sheets of newsprint and crayons. If and when I am released, I will address you more properly, but even my freedom is in your hands. Please have me released, so I can at least have a chance at a normal life.

I miss my daughter and I’m curious to know what happened to the man I married. I mean, if something did happen to him, I don’t know, I mean the change in him. I feel slighted because he is not the man you introduced me to.

Please dedicate more time to me. If I am ever going to change, for the sake of my daughter, if not for myself, please give me the time I deserve. While I know you are exploiting me, just another notch in your belt, my daughter deserves to have that happy ending. Can you give it to her? I will gladly trade my freedom, for her happily every after. Finish our story, please.

I assume you have a real job, not just pretending to be a writer. That is, unless you are one of those charismatic bums who manipulates someone into loving you and financing your lot rent, so you can spend all your time daydreaming about being James Scott Bell or John Grisham. Am I right?

Whatever occupies your time, please squeeze us in. I may be wrong about you being a bum, but if you are gainfully employed, why bother writing anything? I mean the process itself has to be unnerving. Give it up.

You may judge me while I’m a prisoner, that’s fine, everyone judges me now. I hear them speaking their lies. When I get out of here, my attorney will be in touch with them, and you.



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