Dear Kafka, my life, just like yours, has always consisted of attempts at writing, mostly unsuccessful. Being a thin young woman, and with anxiety problems, my energies have always been pitifully weak. I have a lot of history with procrastinating, and the worst part about that, is the thought that I am too good to do a bad job. As much as I hate editing, and I always try to finish a story in the first touch, my list of drafts is endless. My life is determined by nothing but the ups and downs of writing, and certainly during a barren period I should never have had the courage to turn to you. If there is a higher power that wishes to use me, or does use me, then I am at its mercy. If not, I am nothing, and will suddenly be abandoned in a dreadful void. But even this is related to my writing.
Thus the night consists of two parts: one wakeful, the other sleepless (just like the light and dark button in my website).
I have told you so little, and have asked no questions, and once again I must close. But not a single answer and, even more certainly, not a single question shall be lost. There exists some kind of sorcery by which two people, without seeing each other, without talking to each other, can at least discover the greater part about each other’s past, literally in a flash, without having to tell each other all and everything. It must be some sort of black magic. But I won’t say which kind, unless you guess it first.
Farewell, and may this letter reach your spirit where it’s resting; and thank you for your resilience in writing. Reading your work has taught me more than you can ever imagine now. Certainly, less than you’ve ever imagined.
This letter was a creative writing prompt for me, so I decided to recreate one of the letters of Kafka to his dear Felice. To me, it was always hard to open up and talk to people, so talking to my favorite writer was sure one of the best feelings I did encounter during the process of writing.
