
Empty hotels bearing hearts. Photo credit: Isabel Wong
A couple of days ago, I conferenced with my poetry professor. We had met for the first time in class the day before. Despite our near-stranger relationship, we talked for an hour and a half.
According to my sister, I had never laughed so much during a call. Now, re-acclimating to gravity, the reality that I had work to do hit me. I had an email to write.
Emails, for me, are no simple affair. Despite the etiquette, the “Dear” at the beginning, the “Best” at the end, emails are pitted with writerly decisions. I am a very indecisive person, and this email’s conditions and stakes, I knew, could keep me up for weeks nibbling away at edits.








