Write me like a book. Make it short and sweet. Make me a novella. Don’t make my story any longer than it needs to be. Please don’t give me a table of contents. I don’t need to know how many chapters I’ve got left; I only need to know that one small person is reading me.
Make me something quaint, something that no one goes looking for. Write me into something patient and content. And when someone does stumble upon me in the dimly lit corner of a local library, please let them feel as if they’ve discovered their very own tiny little miracle. I don’t need a big publishing company or any kind of award stamped on my chest. I don’t need critical acclaim or to be taught about in schools for decades after I’ve become irrelevant.
All I ask is to be picked up by someone beautifully unassuming. Someone who has no idea that I’m going to change their life by the time they’re done with me. Someone who has no idea that they won’t be able to put me down and who needs to turn one more page of me before falling asleep, eyes weary from studying me carefully so as not to miss a single thing. Someone who finds rest between my pages and beauty between my lines. I don’t need to be some big important novel. I just need to be someone’s short story.
To the author of infinity, a quiet plea.
By Devon Halvorson (via devonhalvorson