This is a love letter. Having never written a love letter to a newspaper before, I ask you to please bear with me.
I’ve always believed that the only constant in life is change and sometimes fortune cookies hit the nail on the head. My last one read, “Relish transitions in your life... they will happen regardless!”
I’ve had tremendous transitions in the last 16 months: lost my husband, moved from one county to another, and been thrust into single living for the very first time. I was becoming embarrassingly despondent when all of a sudden along came The Somers Record, and, like Prince Charming, rescued me.
I am a writer. I am not a blogger, a keyboard user, a typist (what’s that?), or a voice recorder. I am a writer. I love the sensuality of thick, long pads and pencils sharpened to stiletto points; the embrace of graphite and paper; filling blank spaces with conjured words insinuating themselves to create beauty, horror, hopes, dreams, thoughts and desires; bold black letters lovingly caressing virgin sheets.
I am a writer. It is my destiny to titillate the reader; to make him feel the joy or sadness that comes only by seeing written words dancing voluptuously before his eyes and stimulating his senses and imagination.
As a writer I MUST write; I have no choice. Meeting a weekly deadline goads me into putting pencil to paper and creating alphabetical images to enhance the reader’s fancy.
So, this is a love letter in its purest sense, to a publication that has restored in me the impetus to rejoin life. This is a letter of love to the written word, the flowing ink, and the numerous people who give rise to The Somers Record.