Date: Wed, 05 Aug 1998 17:09:36 -0500
From: felineenigma@juno.com (Laura B Browand)
Subject: Do send!
To: WJH3957@tntech.edu
Message-id: <19980805.171044.15310.1.FelineEnigma@juno.com>
References: <01J08R0GJQRM8WWAMF@tntech.edu>

So you write lots of weird things.  Trust me when I say that I don't mind
one bit.  Some of the stuff I write about (usually depressing things) are
quite weird as well.  For example, when I was in Callison's creative
writing class I wrote a story that she ended up sending me to the office
for because she was afraid I was suicidal.  I wasn't of course(at the
time) and nothing happened from it, but some of the stuff I write is
along those lines and it tends to freak people out.  Actually, most of
the stuff I write about is being lonely. 

 If you get to know me really well you'll find out that the person who
was running around Books a Million introducing herself to people was the
me that only comes out  once in a blue moon.  Typically I'm quiet and
reserved.  I've discovered that most people really don't want to take the
time to get to know people on a deeper level; though most of those people
claim that they would and do.  I have been hurt by more people who I
considered friends that way because I do reach into a person.  I find out
everything I can about the way they think and feel and I'm there for them
when they're hurting, but very rarely have I found a friend who will do
the same in return.  Sure, I know several people who do it to an extent,
but I have a hard time with moderation in understanding!

Anyhow, I'm off the subject.  Yes...I would still like to read some of
what you've written. Weird or not, it makes no difference to me.  I won't
think badly of you based on what you feel and how you express it on
paper. If I did that, I shudder to think how you could think of me for
what I write!  

Here is a segment from a Kurt Vonnegut book I was reading last night that
I thought you may find interesting.  The book is called Cat's Cradle.

	"Oh, I think you understand more than you let on," said Dr.
Breed.
	"Not me."  Mrs. Pefko wasn't used to chatting with someone as
important as Dr. Breed and she was embarrassed.  Her gait was affected,
becoming stiff and chicken-like.  Her smile was glassy, and she was
ransacking her mind for something to say, finding nothing in it but used
Kleenex and costume jewelry.
	"Well . . . ," rumbled Dr. Breed expansively, "how do you like
us, now that you've been with us - how long?  Almost a year?"
	"You scientists think too much,"  blurted Mrs. Pefko.  She
laughed idiotically.  Dr. Breed's friendliness had blown every fuse in
her nervous system.  She was no longer responsible.  "You all think too
much."
	A winded, defeated-looking fat woman in filthy coveralls trudged
beside us, hearing what Miss Pefko said.  She turned to examine Dr.
Breed, looking at him with helpless reproach.  She hated people who
thought too much.  At that moment, she struck me as an appropriate
representative for almost all mankind.
	The fat woman's expression implied that she would go crazy on the
spot if anybody did any more thinking.
	"I think you'll find," said Dr. Breed, "that everybody does about
the same amount of thinking.  Scientists simply think about things in one
way, and other people think about things in others."
	"Ech," gurgled Miss Pefko emptily.  "I take dictation from Dr.
Horvath and it's just like a foreign language.  I don't think I'd
understand - even if I was to go to college.  And here he's maybe talking
about something that's going to turn everything upside-down and
inside-out like the atom bomb.
	"When I used to come home from school Mother used to ask me what
happened that day, and I'd tell her," said Miss Pefko.  "Now I come hame
from work and she asks me that same question, and all I can say is -"
Miss Pefko shook her head and let her crimson lips flap slackly-  "I
dunno, I dunno, I dunno."
	"If there's something you don't understand," urged Dr. Breed,
"ask Dr. Horvath to explain it.  He's very good at explaining."  He
turned to me.  "Dr. Hoenikker used to say that any scientist who couldn't
explain to an eight-year-old what he was doing was a charlatan."
	"Then I'm dumber than an eight-year-old," Miss Pefko mourned.  "I
don't even know what a charlatan is."

That perticular section stuck in my mind and I had to mark the page so I
could send it to you to see what you thought of it.  

Write me soon!
Laura


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