I’m writing this note to a Willie Handler that no longer exists. As a younger version of me, you had so much potential, but you wasted it.
And wipe that smirk off your face.
You were smart but never applied yourself. Happy to just get by. You must have driven your teachers crazy with your wildly fluctuating grades. Do you remember the dirty look you got from the math teacher when you got a perfect grade on an exam? He looked so pissed.
You were a slacker, smartass, irreverent and bored. At school you were the Chief Instigator, the Master of Mirth and Captain Chaos. Skipping classes was easy when the school office had a forged signature of your mother on file. Maybe you came by this behaviour easily, being a middle child.
Then you got older and matured.
You went from being under achiever to over achiever, discovering that the best way to fight off boredom was to take on challenges, and you took on so many. Why didn’t you figure that out sooner?
I remember you hated English Lit even though you were an avid reader. The complete opposite of most writers. Just think about how many novels you could have written had you discovered your passion for writing earlier? Why didn’t you use that wicked sense of humour in a more constructive way? You cheated me out of what could have been a much more rewarding writing career. I’m not bitter or resentful. You make choices in life and then have to live with the consequences. Besides, you’ve done very well in life. Not that I’m bragging, but it’s true.
It’s just that I have so many stories in my head, and I know I’ll run out of time before I can get them written. And that’s very sad.