Subject: a letter...
Clumsy9irl@aol.com
Date: Sat Jan 29 2000 - 23:31:12 EST
for a test i took today, i had to bring along 2 pieces of writing and write a
critique. while searching for them on my computer, i stumbled across the
letter i wrote to JD for a contest, called letters about literature. the
point is to write to an author who greatly impacted your life. i was going
to share it, but never got around to it. so here it is in its entirety
(well, i forgot to save my last ervision..so its a bit rough in some spots)
read it if you want, don't if you don't want...im open to criticism (even
though its already sent in) but i just felt like you might enjoy it.
thanks..oh..and smile =)
~Meredith
Dear J. D.,
"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably
want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and
how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David
Copperfield kind of crap," but that's not what I like. First of all, I don't
think that's what matters, because that's all fake. See, I hate phonies. If
there's one thing I despise, its phonies. I've hated them for a while. But
I'll just tell you about all this crazy stuff that's happened ever since I
picked up you book in eighth grade. It was one of my dad's collection. He's
pretty cool I guess, except he's become a yuppie. I don't really talk to him
that much. My mom's great; she tries, but she doesn't get it sometimes. I
get a kick out of her though, she's really funny.
Well, I'll start from the beginning. I went to this small elementary
school and my friends were everything to me, I was popular. We talked about
all the fun stuff -- hair, nails, boys. It was your typical little group.
Well, it was a Friday night, and I went to this slumber party. Everyone cool
was there. But this poor girl, Laura, she was sitting there crying. I liked
her. She wasn't really like 'us' but she was sweet, and she had something
about her.
"What's wrong?" I said.
"Well, nevermind," she replied. She looked as if her dog had died or
something. And then I went over to them, the phonies.
I asked my friends, "Why is she crying? Why do you invited her if all
she does is cry?" I was finally seeing myself in a different light.
"Because we like to watch her cry. It's fun!" Their voices echoed in my
head. Those damn phonies. I took my stuff and just left.
It hit me. I was one of them. Not anymore. I left their group. If
it's one thing I hate, it's those people who are just so fake. I can't
stand them. They drive me crazy.
The rest of that year, I was alone. People didn't talk to me much, and I
didn't talk to them. It didn't much bother me. They all were morons. So, I
started to go online. It was a new world. I started talking to this kid,
Ben. Boy that kid killed me. I swear, you'd like him. He was great--you
should've met him. He was smart and could actually think. We became
friends; he was the first person I connected with in a while. I'd sit there
at my computer screen and talk to his kid, miles away. I mean, if you'd tell
Ben something, he knew exactly what you meant. He just really understood.
He didn't like those goddamn phonies either.
One night, h came online and told me that he got home from a funeral, his
friend's. The drummer in his band, and his best friend had killed himself,
and it got to him. But we talked, and I thought everything was OK. I got an
email a few weeks later from his account. It wasn't him though. It was his
dad. On December 4th, Ben came home sick from school. He sat there, played
guitar, listened to music, and he took some sleeping pills--too many sleeping
pills. His dad found him the next morning, dead. I cried because, really,
it killed me.
I thought people didn't get to me, that I was invincible. After days of
crying, I picked up your book. It was there and it really killed me. I
realized those popular girls were morons and Ben was a great kid. And I was
me, vulnerable yet strong, and nonconforming. This second time around, the
book meant more to me. Your words echoed in my head, the once hardened girl
realized she was just as impressionable as a child. The innocence of
kids--that really gets me. I miss Ben. I think I even miss those damn phony
girls in eighth grade. I sort of miss them all. "Don't ever tell anybody
anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." To this day, I keep this
in mind. I watch myself. I still can't stand the phonies, and the little
kids make me laugh. And I'd definitely take the job of being the catcher in
the rye. But I know they make me who I am, just like Stradlater and Ackley
make Holden who he was. Thanks for being there. But I still wonder, where
do the ducks go in winter?
Love,
Meredith Weatherfield Danowski
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