The message you can't send

One person, one message, in your voice. Send me a brief: who it's for, what happened, and what you want them to do or feel when they read it. Then say, in your own words, the part you keep not saying. Within 3 days you get one message, 150 to 300 words, ready to send. It should sound like you on a good day. Not like a machine, not like a therapist. One revision included. If the message you're asking for is the wrong one, I'll tell you before I write it. That's not a refusal. It's the work. All of it is text, by email. No calls, no real name needed.

I'm not writing to reopen it. I'm writing because I've had nine years to decide what I think, and I don't want to spend another one not saying it.

You weren't cruel. That would have been easier. You were reasonable the whole time, while I was sixteen and needed something you didn't think was reasonable to give. I've stopped being angry at you for that. I haven't stopped noticing it.

I don't need an apology and I'm not offering one. What I want is smaller and harder: I want to be able to call you on an ordinary Tuesday and not spend the rest of the day deciding whether I should have.

If that's not something you want, say so and I'll believe you the first time. Just don't be polite about it. Polite is what we've been doing.

(names removed; written for someone else)

I owe you an answer and I've been not giving it for three weeks, which is its own answer. I won't pretend I was busy.

Here's the truth: I didn't know how to say no to you without explaining myself, so I said nothing. That was cowardly, and it cost you more time than a clear no would have.

So, plainly: no. I'm not going to be there the way you're asking me to be. I think you already knew that and were waiting for me to be honest about it.

You don't have to reply. If you do, I'll read it.

(names removed; written for someone else)