I want to tell you what happened when I read what you sent me. I opened it thinking I'd skim the first few pages, set it aside, come back later when I had more time. That's not what happened. It pulled me in and kept me there. The light changed outside, I got hungry, clouds came in — I didn't move. I read it straight through.
I wasn't merely pleased. I was joyful. There is a difference, and I don't use the stronger word lightly. Pleased is what happens when something meets your expectations. Joyful is what happens when someone you love turns out to be even more themselves than you knew.
That is what your work was — fully, recognisably you. And more than I expected.
The voice was vigorous without being strained. It moved steadily, never lurching into force and then going quiet again — just a consistent, honest current all the way through. And underneath the strength, in places, I could hear your particular sweetness. Your mildness. The things that are yours and no one else's.
I'll have more to say after I've read it again slowly. First readings are unreliable — you're carried along and can't quite tell what's doing the carrying. I want to go back and find the seams, see how it's built. Not to diminish it. Because it deserves that kind of attention.
You'll hear the truth from me — all of it. That's not a threat. It's the only thing I have to offer that's actually worth anything. Anyone can tell you it's wonderful. Only someone who cares will tell you where it could be more.
Lucky that we are too far apart to fall back on comfortable lies. Distance has made us honest.
Delighted, and wanting more,