Like pixie dust in the ether

I thought about a recent comment I made about not being able to thank writers I appreciate, because of my inability to communicate with them. It occurred to me just now as I sit in my vehicle in a parking lot under patches of blue sky with sunrays crawling up my leg, that I can tell them anyway. It doesn’t matter whether these people can read my expressions of gratitude. I’ll put those expressions out in the world, and maybe something cosmic will carry my heartfelt thanks to their doors.


Kylie- You are the only one (besides Walt already) who I feel will receive my thanks. Your prose is beautiful; you put me in your shoes and make me feel.

Huxley-Was it your style? Your content? Maybe both. Whatever the case, I saw myself somewhere in there. You dug into my core and inspired me to start writing.

Mrs. Sizer-You taught me how to write and introduced me to a literary world that changed me for the better. I can never thank you enough.

Book Sniffer-Your writing is so smooth. My eyes simply glide across your beautiful prose. I don’t know where you ran off to, probably hiding in the stacks, but I’d like it very much if you came back. 

Kipling-You were the first. My kindred soul and childhood friend. 

Keller-You taught me perseverance and that the unthinkable can happen, that fight builds courage and courage builds change.

Salinger-You taught me that it’s okay to be edgy, offensive even, on paper.

Berendt-You showed me that fantastic eccentricity is in the most obvious of places and often overlooked, and you taught me how to see it.

Vonnegut-You made me a cynic and you made me laugh while doing it, you sneaky, wonderful man. But more than that, you make me feel like I can write.

Fitzgerald-*sigh*-you taught me how to sing.

Austen-you made me learn new words, you make me fall in love, and you introduced me to my alter ego (or at least the person I long to be).

Shakespeare-No human expression that I’m aware of can explain your impact. 

Paul/Saul-You taught me about love in its deepest form.

…and heartbreaking Byron and Keats and all the rest,

Thank you.


Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

2 thoughts on “Like pixie dust in the ether”

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