In my Creative Writing class, I gave students the assignment of creating a fictional character and then having that character write them a letter. The exercise helps you climb inside your character’s head and make them reveal their deep, dark secrets. When I decided I should do the assignment along with them, I chose Bridget O’Sullivan, the protagonist from my third novel, Bleak Landing. Bridget’s letter to me took a twist I hadn’t expected, but which seemed too good to keep to myself. Enjoy!
Dear Terrie,
Let’s get one thing straight right from the start. I’m only writing this for my class assignment because I’d rather die than settle for less than an A. I feel silly addressing a letter to you because, as you already know—or would know if you really existed—I don’t believe in you. Just so we’re clear: I do not believe you exist. When I told this to my best friend, Maxine, she said, “How did you get here then?”
Maxine is so gullible.
On those rare occasions when I sometimes wonder if I’m wrong, the best conclusion I can draw is that perhaps you exist, but if you do, you certainly don’t care about me. So I return to my original conclusion because deciding you don’t exist is easier than hating you. And if you existed, I’d have to hate you.
Supposedly, you are the Author of this miserable story in which I find myself. Supposedly, you control what happens to me. So, I must ask the inevitable. Why did you let my mother die when I was only five? What kind of love does that to a little kid? Why couldn’t you have taken Pa instead? My mother might have had a tough time providing for us, but at least she wouldn’t have been drunk half the time. She would never beat me, and she certainly wouldn’t have promised that filthy ol’ poker player he could have first chance at me as soon as I turned fifteen. I hate Pa for that, but I hate you even more for not preventing him from making that wager.
If you cared at all about me, you wouldn’t have let those rats Victor and Bruce lock me in the outhouse. You’d have come to my rescue somehow, but you didn’t. Near as I can tell, you let it happen for one reason only: to entertain your precious readers. You care more about them than about me.
If you loved me, why did you let my landlady’s house burn down with everything I owned inside? And while I was at church, yet? Trying so hard to be good. Harriet Watson says I should be thankful I wasn’t home at the time or I might have been badly burned or even died. She says I should feel grateful to you for sparing me. She’s wrong, but I can’t very well argue with her when she’s been so kind to me. Far more kind than you’ve been.
Victor’s mother says I should trust you and be patient because the story isn’t over yet. “All the bad things will be redeemed,” she says. “One day you will look back over your story and you’ll see how Terrie was with you every step of the way.” She tells me you allow us to go through hard things so we can grow. She says you hurt along with us, and sometimes you even cry when those awful things happen. I want to believe her, but how can I? Even the few good things that have happened in my life turned bad. They’ve made me mean enough to lose my best friend.
The way I see it, there’s only one way I could believe in you. If you really are my creator and you’re in charge of this book and you love me … you would need to write yourself into this story. You’d need to leave your precious home and come here and be one of us. Live in our world. Go through this Great Depression alongside us. Walk barefoot in the dirt. Eat nothing but eggs and potatoes for weeks on end. You’d need to do something truly heroic. Perform some miracles to show us your so-called power. Sacrifice in a really big way to demonstrate your love. You might even need to die.
I guess if you did all that, I would have to believe in you. Write yourself into my story and then I’ll believe.
Doubtfully,
Bridget
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