Dear Mrsatroxi,

I read The Notebook for the first time today. I don’t generally read bestsellers. Not because I eschew popularity, but because the books on the bestseller list seem to regularly disappoint me. For me, there is something lacking, some hole some feeling or quality that is not there and I usually end up tossing the paper from me in disgust. This makes me feel a bit hollow and cynical and jaded about reading in general.

The Notebook was missing things too, lots of things. It was a tearjerker to the point of maudlinity, and it was stilted in places, many places. It still made me cry. I cried because I thought I understood what Mr. Sparks was trying so hard to get out. Specialness. He was trying to tell us about two people who were special, and from that came love that was rare.

But everyone is special, you say, everyone is special and beautiful in their own way.

I cannot agree with that.

Everyone is different. All of us have things happen to us to make us unique. Not all of us are special. In all honesty, of the hundreds and hundreds of people I have known in my short life, I can say that only a tiny handful have been Special.

I watched the movie tonight, the movie based on the book, and I got to see their idea, Hollywood’s idea, of specialness, and even though the movie was nice, and it made me cry too, something was lost. Something that Mr. Sparks had been able to brush against, and while not able to bring it fully into focus, he was able to capture some of its form.

Ah well. We all need a good cry once in awhile, don’t we?

I’m really not sure if I should laugh or cry at this:

In my secret heart of hearts, all I have ever wanted to do or be is a singer. As a small child, I even had an alter ego and a stage name, and my fondest activity was belting along with whatever happened to be on the radio.

I hate to be poked. A gentle hand on the back, a touch on the arm to get my attention, I have no problem at all with. But a rigid index finger on my skin sends the fire right into my soul. It takes everything I have not to respond with an elbow across the offending party’s face.

I hate to hit my head. I always get a funny taste in my mouth, an odd feeling in my stomach and immediate anger that I find difficult to quash.

Elephants make me cry. Not because I’m afraid of them, but because they have more empathy and humanity than some people. Those big wise eyes and that wrinkled skin chokes me up every time.

My nose runs when I eat. A lot. I have to blow my nose after every five bites, or risk having snot in my food. I’ve never known if I’m supposed to excuse myself from the table for this or not.

Twelve years ago I was engaged to a gorgeous man who, if I had married him, would have made my life hell. I don’t even think I would be alive right now.

I would rather hold a puppy or a kitten than a baby.

The prettier the day the sadder I get. I think of all the things I should or could be doing, of all the beautiful minutes I am missing, and I grieve them instead of enjoying them.

If I get the hiccups, I will have them for the rest of the day. I have them right now. Hooray.

I love poetry, and I envy the talent that allows some writers to convey more feelings in a few words than some can in an entire novel.

I can recite all the books of the Bible, and what’s more, can find most any scripture.

One of my ancestors was Lady Godiva.

Still awake?