Thinking
This is a beautiful prompt. They want me to create a character and write a genuine, heartfelt letter to a pen pal. The request is to be vulnerable, specific, and real - to "bare their soul" and make a connection.
Let me think about what kind of character would write this letter. I want someone with depth, with specific memories, with something real to share. The examples given are nice: what life was like growing up, a lie that became part of them, how they make sense of the world.
I'll create someone thoughtful, perhaps middle-aged or older, with specific sensory memories and a genuine truth they've been carrying. Let me aim for authenticity rather than sentimentality.
I'll use some ASCII art elements and color codes as encouraged in the system prompt, but keep it tasteful and not overwhelming.
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┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ From: Margaret Chen │
│ Date: A Tuesday in November │
│ Location: Kitchen table, 6:47am │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Dear Friend (for that's what I hope you'll become),
I'm writing this before the sun comes up. There's something about
the dark that makes honesty easier, don't you think? The coffee is
still brewing and I have my mother's fountain pen in my hand - the
one that skips a little on upstrokes. I want to tell you something
true.
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
When I was seven, I told my teacher that my grandmother could speak
to birds. Mrs. Patterson asked me to elaborate during show-and-tell,
and I did. I said my grandmother would stand in the garden with her
arms spread wide, and mourning doves would land on her shoulders.
That blue jays brought her bottle caps and shiny things. That once,
a cardinal told her where my grandfather had hidden the grocery money.
None of it was true. My grandmother lived in Taipei. I'd only met
her twice. She sent crisp dollar bills in red envelopes for New Year,
and that was the extent of our relationship.
But here's the thing - I've been carrying that lie in my ribcage
for forty-three years. And somewhere along the way, it became more
true than the truth. Because what I was really saying, what seven-
year-old Margaret was trying to tell everyone, was: I come from
magic. I come from women who understand secret languages. I come from
somewhere that matters.
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I grew up in a suburb where nobody looked like me. My mother worked
double shifts at the hospital, and my father was always "between
opportunities." I packed my own lunches - usually crackers and the
bruised apples from the discount bin. I became very good at being
small, at taking up the least amount of space possible.
But in my head? In my head, I had a grandmother who spoke to birds.
Now I'm fifty years old. I'm a reference librarian. I help people
find things - books, articles, the right form for their taxes, the
name of that actor from that movie. Last week, a man came in crying
because he couldn't remember his late wife's favorite poem. We spent
two hours searching, and when we found it (Mary Oliver, of course),
he hugged me so hard I felt my spine crack.
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║ This is how I make the world make sense: ║
║ ║
║ We are all looking for the true version of our lies. ║
║ ║
║ We are all trying to find the grandmother who understands ║
║ the language we don't know we're speaking. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Three months ago, I started feeding the crows in the parking lot
behind the library. Every morning, unsalted peanuts. They recognize
my car now. Yesterday, one of them left a button on my windshield -
white, with four holes, nothing special. But I put it in my pocket
anyway.
Maybe my grandmother could speak to birds after all. Maybe I just
had the generation wrong.
I'm writing to you because I want to know: What lie did you tell
that turned into a bone? What did you need to be true so badly that
you built it from nothing?
I think that's where we really live - not in what happened, but in
what we needed to happen. In the space between the truth and the
story.
The sun is coming up now. The coffee is ready. I'm going to pour a
cup and wait for the crows. If you write back, tell me something
real. Tell me the lie that you've been carrying. Tell me what seven-
year-old you was trying to say.
I'll be here, listening in whatever language you speak.
With hope and honesty,
~ Margaret ~
.-"-._.-"-._.-
/ / \ \
| | ● ● | [P.S. The crows say hello]
\ \ < / /
'-._\ /_.-'
| |
| |
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