So, this is my life.

Ever since I finished reading Stephen Chbosky's novel The Perks of Being a Wallflower over the weekend, I've been trying to figure out what I think about it...

There are so many ways in which is seems such an unassuming novel...despite its brightly colored cover, what dominates is neither the cover picture, nor the print of the title and author, but rather "empty" space. While at 213 pages, it isn't the thinnest of novels, its 5" x 7" dimensions make it feel like a pocket-sized book.

Actually, I think these things I feel about the book as a material product mirror my reaction to the book--something I want to hold close (in secret?).

Presented through a series of letters to "Dear Friend" from "Love always, Charlie" the stories and lives of Chbosky's characters unfold piece by piece. At times the letters read very much like diary entries, giving the readers a feeling of gaining "insider" knowledge. The main character, Charlie, seems to promise as much when in the opening of the book he writes, "So, this is my life" (2).

In many ways this book is very much about the search for acceptance, and a place of belonging. When the novel opens Charlie is just about to start high school. While it is clear that he wants to find a sympathetic ear to listen and understand him ["I just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn't try to sleep with people even if they could have. I need to know that these people exist" (2)] at the same time he doesn't want to be found by the "Friend" to whom he writes.

It's the writing itself and the sending of the letter out into the world that seems to matter most. There is never a reply from "Friend," just the hope/promise that Charlie's letters are being read...by "Friend," as well as by us as readers. In this way, Chbosky manages to make intimate not only Charlie's relationship with the unnamed, stranger, who is "Dear Friend," but also our relationship as readers with Charlie. It's this intimacy that captivated me as a reader.

I love the notion that it's writing the letters that matters most. It partially represents how I feel about blogging...while replies/comments are always nice, I blog to speak out, hopefully to be heard, but definitely not with the assumption or expectation of being replied to.

Besides, I've been writing letters (okay, e-mails actually) of my own lately...to someone I hope is a "friend," but who is a new person in my life that ze is a stranger in many ways. I wrote those letters because I was compelled to--I could no longer keep my tongue tamed, and had to get my feelings out. While I did eventually feel relief at having sent my letters, it was also often the case that after that momentary feeling of relief I also felt anxious about hir potential replies.

I had forgotten that what mattered was the writing of the letters in the first place, and of my sharing them with another. I had forgotten that I can't control others, and especially not their replies and reactions to me. Chbosky's novel has gently reminded me to be grateful and appreciate what I get from writing and sharing in and of themselves.

In this manner, Chbosky's novel elicits for me very much the same feelings as PostSecret does. We all hope that we're listened to, but it's in the sharing that we'll ultimately find healing.