Hi I’m Em and this is my introductory letter to you.
I am the youngest child of my family, always known for my artistic quality. However, it was appreciated never. Like during the time I was crying and sobbing trying not to be dropped off to the kindergarten, I found refuge in painting. I’d pick blue, red, and yellow, and create orange, purple, and green. And as good as I was with colors, I was not with pastels; I’d force them onto the sheet of paper, to the point of decease. One’s back would bend and break, the other’s skin would scrub and scrap, thus in my weekly report, my kind kindergarten teacher wrote I was a hard worker. She said in fact, I worked so hard with the crayons that there were almost left none. I remember from then on, I was denied any more public property.
And it didn’t matter.
I developed an interest in singing. I loved how I could go innovative and re-word the lyrics to a whole new meaning. I said not only did O Christmas tree forever crew its toller, but Mary had a little lamp whose grease was bright as glow. Thus, in my weekly report, my kind kindergarten teacher wrote I am a team-player. In fact, I play my teammates so well that the original lyrics are sung by almost none of them. Since then on, I was denied any more public poetry.
And it didn’t matter.
I got engaged with piano, and to everybody’s surprise, saying I’d mess it up with my buttery fingers and clumsy clutch, I was good. Although, that didn’t come to last, too. Early in my eighteenth year, preparing for the great entrance exam of university, I was to dismiss my piano sessions to focus on becoming a doctor, which is ironic, because the sight of blood made my flesh creep.
And it too didn’t matter.
I started an English Literature Bachelor of Arts, and from then on, I decided to direct my all sorts of energy into a pageful of literacy, and took up writing. 'Every time I showed a slightest of interest in something, it turned into trash. But this time is different, I write and dream, make my mind break free and my pen bleed. No-one needs to know it. . . May my success make everybody see what there was always in me.’ I began. I wrote and dreamed and started to see, since I’m writing my dreams, I’m realizing them, because writing something is realizing that thing. It’s giving it a body to exist. Like if I’m writing about when I’m writing to my agent to publish my book, it is actually that; I am writing to my agent to publish my book.
So I dreamed and read and wrote. I dreamed Plath. I read, ‘I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.’ I wrote about my figs rotting in the ground. I dreamed of Camus. I read, ‘I want to drown the sky in the sea, to infuse ugliness with beauty, to wing a laugh from pain.’ I wrote Caligula won the moon. Great souls of Literature came alive in me. I dreamed and read and wrote and fell in love; reached for the sky, danced with the stars. But after all, there are always hard days yet to come; days of doubt, days of fear overcoming perseverance. So they did. Sometimes I thought I’d fly, but fell; I broke before I could bend. I dove but drowned. I crawled on the ground. Yet, I knew I’ve got to go ahead. I knew there’s still a long way left. But because there was this dream in my head, this book in my lap, this pen in my hand, I didn’t surrender. I wrote until it came the day I dreamed I was Billie’s friend. It wasn’t just any old dream, it was too real I felt fame; I heard honor; I saw splendor and smelled celebrity; I tasted talent and touched trueness. It was like, all this time, all these things were in me and I was to find my way to them. And I did. I began to cook my pieces by the addition of those elements. Like I seasoned my characters with splendor, they became ordinary people with strong mentalities. I added a teaspoon of talent to my plots, they became a relatable slice of life. I sautéed my themes with trueness until golden brown, they cherished hardship of life and to rise above it all. Thus, I prepared what I was finally proud to show to the world, and wrote your agency to publish my book.
I hope I hear back from you soon.
About the author
Minoo Salesi is 25. She loves everything literature-related. She has studied M.A. in English Literature, taught English language for four years, and translated two books from English to Persian. She has started writing literary pieces recently, and aims to pursue it professionally in the future.
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