Dear Mr. Killer

A letter to a past friend

Dear Mr. Killer,
Today I thought I saw you. I was walking down the high school’s hall on a tour and saw the table where we used to eat together. It felt like you were still there. Do you remember when that girl cried because of something I said?
On my way out, I walked past the room where we had so many classes in our gifted program. The teacher who mocked you when you broke your arm had that room in the morning.
Mr. Killer, I drove past your house on the way home. I wonder if your mother and sister still live there. If I were them, I would have moved and changed my name. You always seemed so out of place in that house, like a third wheel in your own home. The only time that wasn’t true was when you introduced me to her, the woman I thought you would spend the rest of your life with. Instead, you just spent the rest of her life with her.
I decided to take the long way home, Mr. Killer. I saw the hospital where I took you for physical therapy, the grocery store where you worked, and finally the restaurant. That restaurant is where we shared our last meal together. You came back from Colorado, ready to tell so many stories. You went to the bathroom, and she told me how great things were. Why did she lie? Was she afraid of you? Was she afraid I would tell you, and you would come back even angrier?
I drove down the highway, Mr. Killer. I pulled over where I screamed and cried when I found out what you had done. Back then, I wondered if I could have saved her. I wondered if I could have saved you from yourself.
This will be our last exchange, Mr. Killer. I loved you. You were a brother to me, and I would have done anything to make you okay. I felt angry when I saw people saying you were always a monster. You weren’t always a monster. You were a sad little boy with only a handful of friends. I had hoped I could have done enough to save you, but you were a victim of a community that was determined to isolate you. I can’t forgive you, Mr. Killer. I tried and failed. I hope you can forgive yourself someday.
Once yours,
Your last friend.

Author's Note

In my collection titled :In Memoriam

Reviews

[JayG]

• I have no clue if what I have written is good, but it has been cathartic.

And there you have it. You’re writing to “get it out,” And so far as your emotional state it’s a great idea. But what’s in it for the reader? For them, someone is talking about things meaningful to them, without making the reader WANT to know, or supplying the context needed to make it understandable to the reader. In other words, venting is an emotional act on your part, for your benefit.

Look at the opening lines as a reader, who has only what the words suggest, based on THEIR life-experience.

• Today I thought I saw you.

As you read this, you know who the person is, their relationship, the age and gender of the both speaker and the one spoken of. In other words, you begin reading with context. And having that, the words call up an emotional reaction...in you. But for the reader? Someone we know nothing about it talking to someone unknown, about possibly having seen them, in some unknown place, doing unknown things. You’re mostly, giving effect without making the reader know the cause.

• I was walking down the high school’s hall on a tour and saw the table where we used to eat together.

Because you have intent guiding you, it works. But as worded, the table where they ate has to be in the hallway, because you forgot to mention looking into, or going into, the cafeteria. It’s why we must edit as a reader, knowing only what they know, at any given point, not the author.

• It felt like you were still there.

I give up. Why? You know. He would know. The reader? Not a clue.

• Do you remember when that girl cried because of something I said?

“That girl?” So, an unknown girl cried because something unknown was said, for unknown reasons, and with unknown intent?

See how different your reaction to the words is from that of the reader? Why? Because like so many who come to poetry, you’re using the report-writing skills of school. So, you report. But people come to poetry to be entertained, not learn how the poet is feeling on the day it was written. They don’t care how you feel. They want you to make THEM feel, and care. And that cannot be done without the skills of poetry that have been developed over centuries.

Nonfiction tells the reader that someone cried because a loved one has died. But poetry FIRST makes the reader love that person, to give THEM reason to weep. And strangely, they'll thank you for doing it.

So...don’t talk TO the reader. That’s a fact-based and author-centric approach, which is pretty much the definition of nonfiction. For poetry, you need the emotion-based skills of the poet. And we learned not a trace of them in school, because the task of public education is to ready us for employment. And if you think about it, who but greeting card company needs us to write poetry?

So, dig into the skills of the poet. If nothing else it will distract you from your troubles. And, since it’s something you want to know, the learning will never be boring.

A good place to begin is with Mary Oliver’s, A Poetry Handbook, which you can download or read on the site linked to, below.
https://www.docdroid.net/7iE8fIJ/a-poetry-handbook-pdfdrivecom-pdf

The lady, aside from being a poet of note, has written a great book, one filled with gems. So give it a try.

And as a point of information, It’s not a prose poem, which is defined as: a piece of writing in prose having obvious poetic qualities, including intensity, compactness, prominent rhythms, and imagery.

But all that aside. Dig into the skills of the poet. They'll make your writing more effective, and, more fun to write. But, whatever you do, hang in there and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334