Dear Future Sabrina,
You probably don’t know this, but as I am writing this letter, it is Thursday, June 5th, 2014. You We? I? may not consider this a big accomplishment anymore, but a month ago you finished your first novel. As I’m writing this letter, the amazement and uncertainty is still lingering in your my? our? mind–is it good enough? will you ever be able to get it into shape? Of course, you probably already know the answer–and if you look back onto that very first draft, you will probably laugh nervously and then quickly try to shove it into the deepest, darkest corner you can find. Which, I agree with you us?, is completely necessary.
I wonder what my our? your? future writing career has in store. Will I still be a writer? Will I still have all the hopes and dreams and ambitions of becoming a published novelist that I am today? Or maybe you’re I’m? we’re? already published.
If you’re published, do you ever look back on those first days in which you used to write? The thing which made you realize that you want to become a novelist, or that you could be a novelist?
If you ever find this note in the future, and you have a time capsule that can send stuff back through time, send your past self (that’s me!) a little note. Tell me about all the awards you’ve won, what you do with your life, if our (because it really is our) first novel ever got published.
If you have given up on writing, I have a little bit of advice for you (and I know this will be confusing) from you:
If you are ever lost or struggling or hopeless, if you have ever given up on the perfect craft that you once loved, please do this one favor for me: go back, into your old folder archives, into your old e-mail inboxes, anywhere. Find that very first manuscript, that one that I finished just a month ago, and read through it. That very first draft. Ignore the rocky start, the twisted plot threads, the characters that disappear two pages in–just read through it, and embrace it, and find those perfect little ordinary quotes which I have always and trust that I will always love.
Do it for me. Thank you.
P.S.: Hopefully, by reading this, you’ll remember that flair for drama you used to have. Provided, that is, that you no longer write.
P.P.S.: I hope you manage to find this in five or ten years. Oh, well.