I’m not writing.

by Chelsea Carter

Because, when someone takes a giant shit on you, you really start to evaluate your life.


Tracey Emin – My Bed. Image via theguardian.co.uk

Dear reader, please forgive me for I am predictable. The summer is over, and as usual I am the last to leave the party, kicking, screaming, broken hearted. The leaves have fallen from the trees in London.

Dear reader, please forgive me for I am rusty. I have forgotten how to speak my mind, first because I wanted to be cool, second because I lost my courage. Two letters forward, one back.

Dear reader, oh, dear, dear, reader, please forgive me for I have been busy. Do not think I’ve not been happy, my inbox full and my notebook filled with words. There is always room for more.

Dear reader, are you still there? Forgive me for I am stupid. Embarrassingly, excruciatingly making the wrong choices for the wrong reasons. Fuck being right.

Dear reader, forgive me for I am lazy. Tucked up in goose feather bedding, slurping on Syrah, stuck on a puzzle, when the world can wait another day. You should enjoy good bedding.

Dear reader, forgive me for I am not writing. I tried to think of the reasons why I’m not, but all I can think of are reasons why I should.

Until next time.