I want to write about who I’d be if I wasn’t me. I want to write about what I’d see if I didn’t stand where I do. I want to write about the pain I was dumb enough to miss out on, the pleasure I was smart enough to allow myself to feel. I want to write the lives I’m not going to get a chance to live this time around. I want to write that girl, I want to explain that man, that day, that moment when they just knew.

I don’t want to write boring dialogue of the “he-said, she-said” variety. Who the hell remembers conversations verbatim, anyway? I don’t care what colour the leaves were, I don’t want to know what time of day it was. I want to know how they felt, what they thought, how it lifted them, twisted them, broke them apart, and put them back together again.

I don’t care what his mother’s name was; fuck the back-story tell me the story playing out right now. Don’t tell me how her dress swishes around. Why should I care? Get me in her head. Let me see her heart. I want to get to know her better with the turning of every page. Who the hell is this woman? Why is she bothering me with her story?

Don’t give me big words, give me true words. Don’t give me adjectives, give me life. If he’s an asshole, tell me about it. If he’s a prince, prove it. Don’t give me twists in a plot, make me feel how fucked-up the world really can be. Make me believe that a happy ending might exist for me too.

I’m your closest confidant who’d never, ever tell on you. Live in these pages you create. Breathe here, love here, dream here, believe, question and learn here. Tell the story from your heart. Tell the story for real.

I know what I want to write, Netta. Don’t stand in my way.

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