Dear Tom Selleck . . .
Let's skip the part about how I never write anymore. Because I do write. A lot. Just not always to you. But I haven't written anything in a very long time. Nothing. Nowhere. I've been as quiet as I can be for as long as I needed to be.
Lately though, I've thought a lot about writing again. I just wasn't sure what to write and where to write it. When there are piles of unfinished business everywhere, where do you begin?
And then . . .
I met this quirky, cool, intelligent, funny, kind-hearted, dichotomous waitress with great hair and OCD. Sound like anyone else you know? She fascinated me. And then she blew my mind. She called off her wedding, that was just weeks away, and moved to Boston. To engineer prosthetic shoulders for the government. Or something like that.
There was a send-off party for her at work. I came in on my night off. That's how much I like this girl. And rumor had it, there would be cake. I'd have to bring a gift. So I put 5 minutes of thought, a few hours of my time, and no money at all into it, and came up with possibly the best gift I've ever given. Mostly because I also got to keep it for myself. The Ultimate Playlist.
According to Google Maps, it takes 12 hours and 40 minutes to get from our one-horse town to Boston. I burned 12 hours and 42 minutes of music for her. I carefully chose songs that would help her take on the road ahead of her - physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. If she listened not just to the music, but to herself along the way, she'd be ok. I know this, because I'm ok.
I set out on a similar journey 17 years ago, this month. I had no idea where the road ahead of me would lead, but it was the first time in my life I listened only to myself. If I fucked it up, I'd have no one to blame but me. If it turned out to be amazing, no one else could take the credit.
I fucked it up. On multiple occasions. But it's turned out to be amazing.
Edie B. Kuhl