My sister sent me some of your writings, and I don’t mean to be a jerk, but you’re not much of a writer… Now, I’m not saying that you’re awful, but your stuff needs work.
... I have a master’s degree in English, I have written three books, and I know what it means to be a writer.
Again, I’m not trying to be cruel, I’m just offering a healthy dose of reality. Simply posting content on social media doesn’t make someone a writer.
P.S. I’m pretty sick of hearing about your dumb dog, and I’ll bet others are too. Word to the wise.
A week ago, I attended a GED graduation ceremony. I was invited by Miss Terri, who teaches the general education prep classes.
I wish you could’ve been there.
We could’ve used you. It was a small room, there were only about twenty-five in attendance. Most in the audience had just gotten off work. Some wore neckties. I didn’t.
The recipients were from different backgrounds. One man was
in his seventies. You would’ve liked him. Everybody did. He cried through the whole ceremony. He clapped hard for each graduate.
He’s worked construction most of his life. He walked across the stage to receive his diploma. His smile could’ve set the woods on fire.
Another graduate was late-forties, a recovering alcoholic who almost committed suicide three years ago. He was grinning like he’d just discovered teeth. He broke down crying, too.
The word “beautiful” comes to mind.
The next graduate was a woman who’d sustained a traumatic brain injury at age seventeen. She is fifty-three. She posed for a photograph with her two sons, and well…
The reason I’m telling you this is because these people are me. I am them. We are the same.
When I was…