Dear Chris Rose:
Hell and Back
I was in New Orleans this past July. I had the good fortune to read your book and I loved every page. I was inspired to write when I was finished, and I thought I did a pretty bang-up job with this editorial. I was elated at how easily the words came, and how happy it had made my friends and family when they read it. I had written it as a tribute to you for being my muse.
I had every intention of writing you an email and sending you a copy of what I had written. I was so busy while I was in New Orleans that I didn't have time to sit down and compose an email I felt worthy of your keen eye. We arrived back in Utah on July 31st, and I thought better of sending you anything at all. Now that I have read "Hell and Back," I realize that I couldn't have sent anything that you would have read that would have pierced the dread and the doom you were experiencing...it would have fallen upon "blind eyes," so to speak.
After slogging through NOLA.com's 14 pages of this particular story, I got to the part on page 14 about crying every day since August 29, 2005. And I started crying. My cousin that lives in New Orleans works as a social worker at an area hospital. She has been working almost seven days a week this year trying to help people that come in for mental and emotional problems. How she does it, I'll never know. She maintained a mostly happy, as well as tired, outlook during our visit. Thinking about what she listens to every day, and how she goes in on Saturday and Sunday to stay caught up with work finally sank in. If she didn't cry, I cried for her today. New Orleans is a tough gig these days.
My husband and I are planning on moving to New Orleans temporarily this winter; as much as I would like stay excited and happy about this plan, I know that the longer I stay in the city I, too, may become susceptible to its heartbreak, anger, and whatever else it has become since...well, you know. I plan on writing right through it all, though. And everytime I read something that you write I am inspired anew, and I think I could actually make a living doing this writing thing. My English degree has languished some since 1989, and my mother would be so happy if I made a stab at writing for a living. So would my husband.
You matter. You touch lives. You've touched mine and I live so very far away. But not for long. I look forward to reading you in the T-P regularly once I arrive. And if I see you on the street I may say hello. I hope you say hello back.
Thanks for inspiring me.
I was in New Orleans this past July. I had the good fortune to read your book and I loved every page. I was inspired to write when I was finished, and I thought I did a pretty bang-up job with this editorial. I was elated at how easily the words came, and how happy it had made my friends and family when they read it. I had written it as a tribute to you for being my muse.
I had every intention of writing you an email and sending you a copy of what I had written. I was so busy while I was in New Orleans that I didn't have time to sit down and compose an email I felt worthy of your keen eye. We arrived back in Utah on July 31st, and I thought better of sending you anything at all. Now that I have read "Hell and Back," I realize that I couldn't have sent anything that you would have read that would have pierced the dread and the doom you were experiencing...it would have fallen upon "blind eyes," so to speak.
After slogging through NOLA.com's 14 pages of this particular story, I got to the part on page 14 about crying every day since August 29, 2005. And I started crying. My cousin that lives in New Orleans works as a social worker at an area hospital. She has been working almost seven days a week this year trying to help people that come in for mental and emotional problems. How she does it, I'll never know. She maintained a mostly happy, as well as tired, outlook during our visit. Thinking about what she listens to every day, and how she goes in on Saturday and Sunday to stay caught up with work finally sank in. If she didn't cry, I cried for her today. New Orleans is a tough gig these days.
My husband and I are planning on moving to New Orleans temporarily this winter; as much as I would like stay excited and happy about this plan, I know that the longer I stay in the city I, too, may become susceptible to its heartbreak, anger, and whatever else it has become since...well, you know. I plan on writing right through it all, though. And everytime I read something that you write I am inspired anew, and I think I could actually make a living doing this writing thing. My English degree has languished some since 1989, and my mother would be so happy if I made a stab at writing for a living. So would my husband.
You matter. You touch lives. You've touched mine and I live so very far away. But not for long. I look forward to reading you in the T-P regularly once I arrive. And if I see you on the street I may say hello. I hope you say hello back.
Thanks for inspiring me.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home