Dear Katie,

You will never be a writer. Do you remember all of those times when other people praised your work? The time when Mr. Winnard told you that you had a gift, a talent? Or the time when, in a workshop, Carol said that your poem belonged in an anthlogy, because it read like the ones she's seen there before? Remember when your classmates voted you to represent them and read your poetry at the donor's dinner? Remember when your poems were accepted into Gallery, voted the best, and given an honorable mention? Remember when Dr. Belau was upset because you weren't pursuing the M.A (you were going for the MFA instead), but she said that at least you'd be able to write brilliantly? Remember the smiles on the peoples' faces when you read in public, and how - once at a workshop - the gay priest just HAD to read the sexy teacher poem outloud to the class?

Do you remember all of this, Katie? All of these people were just being nice to you. They felt sorry for you because, in reality, your poetry sucks. It's unimaginative - unoriginal. How many people before you have written about vaginas? It's called the Vagina Monologues and it's been done before.

Your language is only sometimes fresh, but you hold onto an image too long until it's boring and eventually dead. You have no right to write about your subjects because you've lived a cushioned life, you have no great experiences and you're only a moderately intelligent white bitch who hides behind her desk all day, whose thighs slowly expand in her office chair, who knows nothing about really living outside her little bubble of love, whose feet and hands are as smooth as pearls because she's never had to really use them. You can't write because you don't know anything. You haven't read enough of the greats, you don't read enough poetry, you don't know the right people, you're too damn shy, you play too much Spore, and above all, you simply don't write or publish enough.


The pessimist inside of you.