Week 17: An Open Letter
Dec. 15th, 2025 05:48 pmThis is one of my entries for Week 17 of LJ Idol: The Wheel of Chaos. This is our Portfolio week, which involves a couple original entries plus some other things. Here's the link back to My Portfolio Page. This entry tackles the prompt, "Write an 'Open Letter' to a contestant in this Wheel of Chaos who is no longer an active participant."
Dear![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bleodswean,
I write this on a scroll, left next to plates of honey, milk, and a sprig of asters, rapidly fading in the December coolness. Since I don't know where the werewolves have taken you, I'll leave it at the Sanctuary of Eleusis, the shrine to Persephone. That seems most meet, as you know her well, and she has appeared to you in multiple forms over the seasons to inhabit your delicately wrought stories.
So often, your pieces stay with me long after I've read them. Whether it's a series of vignettes taking us through the stages of aging while evoking the virgin, mother, crone cycle; or a couple's bonding moment, told completely through dialogue; or your heartfelt recounting of your mother's health crisis, you are a master wordsmith.
Demonstrating an economy of language, while at the same time being intricate where needed, your pieces read to me like a dance. A poem. An artscape. What's more, you're a skilled storyteller, so that the flow of the language draws inexorably towards a deserved conclusion. Sometimes, it leads to an ending that is uplifting -- like an anthem, not like doggerel -- such as in your piece about a quirky gothic theater group. More often, your endings are complicated, like a dream poem about the interconnectedness between memories, heartache, and motherhood. That, again, is an accomplishment: your ability to fit the form to the meaning, whether poetry, prose, nonfiction, fiction, or something in between.
Too many times, as I grow older, I'm reminded that we should tell people what we want them to know while we have the luxury of existing in the same timeline. When I look back, I realize how much your writing has meant to me since I first began reading it, a number of years ago. More than that, I value knowing you: how you've supported your fellow writers by egging us on in our escapades. You're often the first person to write a comment on my pieces, and it will be one that shows you've read deeply and sussed out my intention. I suppose it should be no surprise that such a gifted writer is also a perceptive reader. For that support, I'm deeply appreciative.
Why am I writing this missive, in lavender ink on linen paper, when you've been dragged away by werewolves? What purpose does it serve to leave it here? Perhaps the skulls in your art photographs will speak them into the night, and you'll hear the echo somewhere down the forest paths.
Or maybe -- and this is my hope -- like Persephone, you will rise again next season and grace us again with your abundance.
A black-and-white photo of a bare tree in winter, with its branches imitated in shadow below, so as to resemble a tree of life, with branches above and roots below.
(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photo.)
Dear
bleodswean,I write this on a scroll, left next to plates of honey, milk, and a sprig of asters, rapidly fading in the December coolness. Since I don't know where the werewolves have taken you, I'll leave it at the Sanctuary of Eleusis, the shrine to Persephone. That seems most meet, as you know her well, and she has appeared to you in multiple forms over the seasons to inhabit your delicately wrought stories.
So often, your pieces stay with me long after I've read them. Whether it's a series of vignettes taking us through the stages of aging while evoking the virgin, mother, crone cycle; or a couple's bonding moment, told completely through dialogue; or your heartfelt recounting of your mother's health crisis, you are a master wordsmith.
Demonstrating an economy of language, while at the same time being intricate where needed, your pieces read to me like a dance. A poem. An artscape. What's more, you're a skilled storyteller, so that the flow of the language draws inexorably towards a deserved conclusion. Sometimes, it leads to an ending that is uplifting -- like an anthem, not like doggerel -- such as in your piece about a quirky gothic theater group. More often, your endings are complicated, like a dream poem about the interconnectedness between memories, heartache, and motherhood. That, again, is an accomplishment: your ability to fit the form to the meaning, whether poetry, prose, nonfiction, fiction, or something in between.
Too many times, as I grow older, I'm reminded that we should tell people what we want them to know while we have the luxury of existing in the same timeline. When I look back, I realize how much your writing has meant to me since I first began reading it, a number of years ago. More than that, I value knowing you: how you've supported your fellow writers by egging us on in our escapades. You're often the first person to write a comment on my pieces, and it will be one that shows you've read deeply and sussed out my intention. I suppose it should be no surprise that such a gifted writer is also a perceptive reader. For that support, I'm deeply appreciative.
Why am I writing this missive, in lavender ink on linen paper, when you've been dragged away by werewolves? What purpose does it serve to leave it here? Perhaps the skulls in your art photographs will speak them into the night, and you'll hear the echo somewhere down the forest paths.
Or maybe -- and this is my hope -- like Persephone, you will rise again next season and grace us again with your abundance.
A black-and-white photo of a bare tree in winter, with its branches imitated in shadow below, so as to resemble a tree of life, with branches above and roots below.
(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photo.)
