Dear Bill,

Yes, I gave 50 claps to a response where you praise my writing and I want you to know those claps are for you, not me. I want you to have them. They’re yours. I wish I had more to offer.

There’s no way you know this — you simply can’t know this — but I’ve been stewing in some fucked up writing purgatory for the last month and your comment is pulling me back. Every time I read it (and I’m about on #58 now) it lends weight to my foot that’s trying like hell to step on the gas and get me out of this grayscale.

I want to see colors again.

You nailed me, Bill. You get it. And the fact that you get it and took one of the few precious moments you’ve been gifted on this earth to tell me, a perfect stranger, that you get it…to share with me that I’ve contributed in some nebulous way to your own journey…well, that’s about the most humbling and motivating gift you could give me.

And you offered it at the very moment I am teetering on the edge. You reached out your hand and I’m reaching back.

You fucking write, Bill. Your voice is strong and sound. Write from your soul — from the place inside you that called upon you to reach into the void to connect with a stranger who needed your words as much as you needed hers. I need more.

I sent your comment to three friends and said, “I’m ready to write again. I can’t let this guy down. He sees the thing in me that I’m looking for and maybe I’ll find it again if I borrow his eyes.”

Thank you, Bill. I’m a fan and a friend. Write to me and hit publish. Fuck the claps and the curation and any of the other extrinsic bullshit.

I can’t wait to see what else you have to offer.

Mama, writer, lover, fighter — I wear my heart on my sleeve because my pants pockets are too small.

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