Dear Chapter 14,
I never wanted to write you in the first place, but one of my readers thought I should explain situation A in more detail. You cover some interesting material, but your major focus is a situation that I rarely think about. It’s a situation that was vitally important to me at age 25.
OK, fine. If I want to admit the truth, reverberations from the situation still come up today at thirty-mumble. Damnit. I kind of hate you, chapter 14. I hate you for the casual cruelties of one’s early and mid twenties. I hate you for the casual cruelties that persist into our thirties. I hate that I’m still talking about this, chapter 14.
If you were fiction, chapter 14, I might even love you. The atmosphere would be moody and Southern. I could go into more detail and break our protagonist’s heart in two right on the page. The stakes would be higher, and our heroine would be braver, and maybe better-dressed. I would make readers come along as she drove through the North Carolina countryside, the hot green fields, half-drunk and alone.
I would follow her down highway 47 and show you just the taillights of her pickup truck, one rainbow sticker stuck slightly crooked on the bumper, and you would know all about our protagonist’s stupid, stupid heart.
What do you hate to write?