The shittiest thing about writers is they’ll dump their latest stories on you and never spare a second to read between the lines of the letters you write them. Like when you say you’re doing fine, they’ll believe it. They won’t take you at anything more than face value. But when that character they wrote - the one with the slight limp and the thousand mile stare - says with hope this might be a good thing in the long run, you’re supposed to see the irony. And there was that one time you tried to tell them what it was like to stay dry-eyed at your mom’s funeral. They said they knew what it was like; their favorite character in every book is always the one that dies.
And when you haven’t yet gotten around to reading that story they wrote, slicing themselves proverbially open to figuratively bleed out onto the pages, they’re shocked. Sure, you’ve been netting four hours a sleep every night and struggling with the depression they don’t seem to notice - but this story is important. Why don’t you read it on your commute instead of reviewing for that test later? Or during your lunch break instead of taking a half hour out of your twelve hour shift to eat?
The truth is you’re drowning and if you were in a story it would be obvious, because a writer makes sure you know. Unfortunately, this is real life and you’ve tried to tell them; you tried so hard. But they have this story they’re writing and no time for your bullshit so could you please just leave them alone so they can finish this section thank you. So you leave the room and sit in a twenty-four hour diner drinking coffee until the waitstaff starts glaring and you can’t help but wish life were a movie instead.
Courtney Takats is a student at Brooklyn College. She spends more time obsessing about trivialities such as a bumblebee's metabolism than she spends on most other activities.