*Warning: contains contractions, run-ons, and several other grammatical preferences*
Dear Ms. Tait,
I so sincerely regret to inform you that I never did read... well, any of the assigned novels from your Sophomore English class. And to be entirely honest, I'm not sure that I read any assigned novels from any other class either.
You see, as a narrow-minded youth I spent my time in the classroom dreaming of some glamorous life outside it. And while the memorize to regurgitate models of most courses were easy to fake, yours was a particularly challenging one.
I still remember frantically scrambling to find some understanding of the novel you had assigned several weeks prior, but had only served to collect dust on my nightstand since. Watching Sunday evenings turn to Monday mornings, as the looming threat of your essay exam crept closer with every web search. Compiling abbreviated, surface level understandings from online summaries, hoping to gather just enough to fake it. Which as you know, I often successfully did.
A Bernard like character for most of my life, my school years were defined by a silent, but un-noble defiance of my peers. Often critical, I felt out of place, yet still failed to developed my own ideas. Downright unhappy, and void of passion, I stayed fixated on the horizon, convinced that it'd all just happen one day.
With a surplus of clothing and a deficiency of identity, I constantly consumed, yet drifted through life one supposedly monumental era at a time. Senior year, college, and birthday after birthday, I hovered in place, often just meters from taking a plunge. And then, I did.
In September of 2016, I quit the job, the career, the life I had so impatiently awaited for decades. "The money, the affection, and most of all the status", I'd thought to myself as I entered a career in finance. But then came the reality, the disappointment, and the unrelenting hopelessness. After less than six months, I dropped those last thirty meters, hoping to find relief. But instead I found an even less vibrant reality.
Exhausting one Netflix series after another, and consuming an egregious amount of online junk, I had reduced to a soma like state of denial. But then, in a slow burn of passion, my mind-numbing state began to thaw. It began with a few photos, intensified with the introduction of notes, and most recently as I dusted off an old novel and explored its contents, my creative passion erupted, with literature.
SparkNotes may provide momentary flashes, but they will never ignite. Literature, on the other hand, considered in its entirety, can spawn revolutions, as I'm witnessing more with each page. So, Ms. Tait I ask you, what should I read next?