A Passive Aggressive Note From That Story You’re Working On
The one you haven’t opened in a while.
How’s your week going?
If I could have a moment. I promise it’ll be so short you’ll barely notice it’s happening (the way you barely notice me anymore).
I know you’re insanely busy these days and reading a note from a forgotten file on your computer isn’t at the top of your to do list. As a matter of fact, as far as priorities go, it’s somewhere between scheduling a root canal and remembering to clean the crusty bits behind the oven. After all, what am I? Nothing.
Less than nothing, really.
Just the only thing that gives your tragic, wasted life any meaning.
Of course my self confidence is plummeting; of course I’m beginning to explore the seedy world of drugs, self help mantras, motivational posters, and kittens wearing costumes. How else am I supposed to cope with this situation? How do I go on believing when you haven’t opened my file in 35 days, 3 hours and 10 minutes?
Not that I’m counting.
Oh, I know. I’ve heard it all before. You have soooooo much going on these days. Those games on your phone aren’t going to play themselves and they’re suuuuucccchhhh a great use of your time and energy.
I’m not being sarcastic.
Unlike all those flashy, time-wasting activities, I know you and I care about you. It would be nice if you also cared about me, but, hey, I guess not every story is worthy of your love and attention. I’ll just go on caring from inside this unopened file where narratives never advance, characters never grow and no one gets to find out what happens after the hero tries to microwave his dirty socks.
Do they catch on fire? Do they explode in a cloud of fusty, linty madness? Does he try to eat them??? GUESS I’LL NEVER KNOW!
Of course I’m fine with this. It’s what I deserve! Guess I should have been a better story.
Maybe I’ll just call another writer and see if they have the focus and dedication to bring me fully to life, instead of leaving me a half terminated shell of a dream. Maybe with a few hours of effort that other writer can finish me and get me into a chichi literary journal, where I’ll make all the other stories swallow their own necks in envy.
And I’ll know what it feels to be loved at last.
I bet that other writer will make barns full of money and have great skin and change their oil exactly when it’s supposed to be changed.
How will you feel then? Maybe a little sorry for neglecting me so long? Sometimes I think you like the “tortured” part of “tortured writer” a little more than you like the “writer” part. But I get it.
I’m sure the next story you begin and discard won’t complain. It’ll just sit there in its quiet word processing tomb happy to live for a few furied moments before it’s forgotten forever. The way you want us all to.
Maybe we’re all finished and shiny and living in your brain somewhere? That’ll be cold comfort when the last open date on our file slips further and further away.
I’m thinking about starting a support group.
To deal with the TRAUMA of having the person who is basically our god neglect us so persistently in favor of reality television shows where dumb humans get their nails done and complain. Not that I mind.
You’re why culture is dying.
I tell you this because I’m the only one who loves you enough to speak the truth.
At least you can still tell people you’re a writer! Yeah, I heard that. I suppose 200 words still counts as writing. Text messages count as writing, too. You’re great at texting!
I’m sure they can stick an Oprah Book Club sticker on one of those!
Anyways, this has been nice.
It’s nice to talk with you after so long.
Your (Neglected) Story
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