My Birthday for a Book

Hello there, Stranger.

It’s been a while since I’ve let myself reach out to you. I’ve missed you more than I can describe; but, for many months now, I’ve avoided all social media. And it felt amazing, after a while. But it’s time for me to learn how to strike a balance between sharing and living. Even as I type this, I check my phone several times. Maybe this is a mistake? but I have plenty of new writings I want to share, so: onward!

Today is an especially powerful date for me, because it’s the birthday of my soul-mate /

miss l

Looks good for 85, right? You can tell we’ve been through a lot together.

my favorite book of all-time: Miss Lonelyhearts! It was published 85 years ago today; then, almost immediately, the book became the victim of the very Depression it portrayed, and Miss Lonelyhearts’ publisher went bankrupt. And that’s why it’s now one of the greatest books you’ve probably never heard of, but one you MUST! READ! because it’s more relevant today than it’s ever been. (Plus, once you read it, I can finally talk about it with someone! And psssst. . . You can read it online. But, you’ll probably end up loving it, then eventually own four or five copies like me.)

I first read this book (for free online) about four years ago; and it instantly became an inspiring obsession of mine, and remains for me a deeply moving and comforting experience. I carried it around like a bible for years, and lent it to more people than I can remember. For the last few years, I’ve also been working on a novel of my own, based on Miss Lonelyhearts. 230-plus pages later, I am tantalizingly close to being done with the first draft. Anyhow: I wrote a poem to commemorate Miss Lonelyhearts’ birthday!


The weight of my soul
is the diamond untarnished
by noise and touchings
and other incomplete
sensations. It is the phantom
singularity that pulls and swirls
my insides, even when a favorite
song does not distract me, or
a movie isn’t what I thought.
The thing that I was born with
that’s different but the same
in everyone else: it soothes
me and says to me wordlessly
that everyone dreads being
exactly what they are:
an average human being,
who avoids what they want most,
and says things they don’t really believe
just to feel powerful or belonging.
But, despite its vast logic
and miracles, it can’t stop me
from killing myself,
because it holds no opinions
or context of death. Something else
overpowers me, and forces me
to live, something multiplied
freshly each moment,
decorating all that’s come before.

You’ll be hearing from me again soon. I promise!

I hope I get to hear from you someday, too.

Love always,

Miss L.

Open your heart to me?

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