Letter I:
Dear J,
How are you doing? How’s time off? I am writing to you on a wobbly wooden table at a bookstore with a small cafe. It is 3:48 pm now. I have a cup of passion tea next to me. The card reader at the cafe is broken so the barista gave me the tea. His name is Hunt. That means I will come back to the bookstore again and give Hunt a reasonable tip.
The bookstore is located in the plaza where the touristy stuff happens. The owner of the bookstore is an iron lady in her late 60s. She has a small old mix-breed dog called Brownie. Neither of them is friendly. That makes me laugh. She drove a couple of people out of the store last time I was here because it was 10 minutes to 5 – that’s when the store closes. She guarded the door with her tiny frame and told them: “We open tomorrow at 9am.” I like her right away.
I am sitting against the window. The sun is beaming. This place is magical to me. Let’s see what I have been up to. I wrote consistently now that I don’t have any restriction on writing devices. I like this app called Bear. Most of my poems are on this app. I am still bad at gathering all of my writings in one spot. I have stuff spreaded out in Google Doc, my journals and Bear – some of which make it to my blog but most of them don’t. I want to be good at organizing, not as much as I want to be good at writing. That’s okay for now. Going “pro” requires a shift in identity that I am walking towards. Don’t you think walking is a reasonable human speed that we can handle?!
Talking about being compassionate towards oneself. I am getting better at it. Someone wise said that “If you truly love yourself, you will not be able to harm another”. There is some truth in that.
I have been dating people. No one special. I can love any one of them. And neither is more interesting than you. Not that I am interested in dating you. Just saying, I want someone I like to be around. Someone I want talk to and laugh with. Ideally a male version of my mother or a female version of you. That would be gold! I am not certain if that person exists, even if he/she does, will we meet? Will they like me? This line of questioning no longer brings me anxiety. I am happy with my life – it is full and wonderous.
I have trouble finishing writing a book. I want to. Simply to prove to myself that I can. Do I need to finish a story/book? No. But again, what else is more interesting to do?! I love writing. Nothing gives me deeper satisfaction.
Well, I have to stop now. The store is closing. More soon.
Xo,
Xiaoyu
Letter II:
J,
Is Spring arriving for you? Any revelations? I have come back to the same bookstore. This place has most of the things I love: sunlit windows, enough tables and chairs to read and write, books(!), coffee and tea, the right amount of distraction and people, dogs (well-behaved), a good playlist. I come as much as I can. The bookstore office is labeled “Women’s Issues”. I like how clever women can be.
“I don’t know.” That has been my answer to life’s most profound questions or things that don’t interest me a hair. Is this honesty or is this intellectual laziness? I am working with a limited attention span here. Laziness has been on my mind. Am I lazy? If so, is it bad? Am I bad? My dad was upset that I took a day off work in the middle of the week because I felt tired and needed to catch up on sleep. That’s not how my dad likes it. He worked hard. And he has consistently worked hard. He expected more and better from me. And I am not delivering. I know he loves me regardless. But his response to my day off made me pause. Should I work harder? What does that look like for me?
I worked hard in high school. So hard it almost killed me. China is a competitive place. To get into college, one studies like one’s life depends on it. In many ways, it does. I was having mental breakdowns every week from the volume and pace of work. My mom is so relieved that I am no longer preparing for the college entrance exam. So am I. I don’t ever want to work like that again. What if to become the artist I’d hoped I would need to work like that for a long time? I understand greatness comes at a cost. Am I willing to pay?
I went to see O’keefe. She had a painting destroyed because it is not up to her standards. She wanted no one to see it. Next to the destroyed painting, sits a peaceful unfinished piece. In a short clip, she talked about how the painter and the person are two different entities. I don’t understand what she meant. Maybe because I don’t fully understand what it means to be an artist? But who am I if not an artist? I am an artist. I am one of us, like you, like O’Keefe. My heart aches at the possibility that I wouldn’t live up to my standards. This deep attachment to becoming an artist, by nature, causing me to suffer. I chose it. This is my share. I am happy to be on this quest, like O’Keefe did.
A writer suggested that I write to one person. Direct all my writing to one person. For the moment, I only want to write to you. You get me and you get it. I never expect you to write back and I always feel so delighted when you do. That’s the “it” I meant. Perhaps writing to you would be my way to finish the book. I want to know what I am made of. I am going to the edge.
I think that’s it for now. I am going on a hike after this. I will write soon. Take care.
Xo,
Xiaoyu
