Dear Seth and Stephen,

I've been watching you both for comfort since before the Florida Orange Man took office, and likely will long after he leaves (I hope).  I can't remember when I first took note of you.  I know that with you, Seth, it happened not long after the 2016 Elections, when YouTube offered me the lifeline of suggesting one of your A Closer Look or The Check-In segments, and I subscribed the same night.  With you, Stephen, I first noticed you during your The Werd segments from the Daily Show with Jon Stewart.  I noticed you initially when I was a young Republican teen still living at home with my Papa, and I found you again as a newly emerging, bleeding-heart Democrat.  

Now, you're both a huge part of the intricate net of lifelines that keep me afloat day-to-day in this completely bonkers world.  

When I first imagined spending my days working from my home as a writer, I imagined waking up each day to a warm cup of tea, some hot cereal or oatmeal or fried eggs, and some toast.  I never considered who would make those things or how I might teach myself the focus and rigorous morning routine needed to do all of that without wasting hours of my day due to distractions, derailments, and depletions of energy.  

In my mind, this morning routine would take place on a patio or deck or balcony, outside on a warm and sunny, but not too overwhelmingly bright day, a light breeze keeping the worst of the sun's heat from burying itself in your skin and clothing.  The outdoor space would be surrounded by greenery and flowers and walls, any human-made sounds (aside from maybe a fountain or, possibly, wind-chimes) would be silenced somehow.  

Then, after breakfast (again, clean-up energy and time never entered into my imagination before now), I would retreat to a comfortable, cushioned window-seat, warmed by the sunlight streaming through the windows, reclining, and spending several hours a day reading through entire novels and, thus, getting through them in a few days to, at most, a week.  

Finally, after my reading time ends (at a decent, if not perfect, stopping point in the novel, if at all possible so that the story isn't nagging at the back of your mind the rest of the day), I would move to my writing space to... you guessed it... write for many more hours.  

Granted, the writing bit should probably take place after a lunch of some description and / or many (ideally healthy) snacks at hand, but I never imagined these details either in my initial plans.  Nor did I factor in dinner.  I do love food when I have the time to enjoy it, but given my schedule and levels of focus on the regular, I'd genuinely be happy to go to an all liquid diet with only quick and nommy solid foods to snack on here and there.  I loathe the necessity of eating, so I keep it as nommy as possible to force myself to fuel my body in a mostly appropriate manner.  It's only natural that I'd forget about this irritating necessity in my daydreams, really.  They are, after all dayDREAMS, not dayREAL-LIFES.  

I feel like that's how I'd like to end every day, come to think on it:  Writing.  Typing frantically into a word-processor to transport the pictures in my mind on the ship of words until the images dry out and evaporate in the sun, or the words dry up on the tips of my fingers.  I want to write for hours, take a break for necessities (like dinner and dog-walking and spending time with loved ones), then write for hours more... until I can write no more and my pillows start tempting my brain.  I want to write until I pass out every night, then get up the next day and do all of it all over again.  

Lately, I've imagined a small, one-room Hobbit-hole constructed in the hill behind Sam's house.  A soundproof structure partially underground with a window-seat for reading, a space for writing, and another space for singing and playing and making a lot of noise without worry of being a nuisance to any neighboors or family members, but also without them interrupting my thought or creative processes while I'm working.  Maybe that space is just a creative space large enough to transition for sewing, painting, drawing, writing, singing, playing, and, even, rehearsing, but small enough to feel safely enclosed, like a shed or... a fucking Hobbithole.  ;P  

I think it can be done, and maybe with the money I make from my first sold artistic project, I can attempt to make it a reality.  And I feel you're both nerdy enough to understand how awesome a reality that would be!  

I just want a space that doesn't give me any excuses not to create and the space to just spend time creating.  And yet... here I am, home all day with nowhere to be, and I'm not creating.  I have a myriad excuses for it all, and I will also say (to be kind and fair with myself) that my mental health has been tricky to navigate throughout all of this.  

But these excuses are allowing me to escape creating and doing... pretty much anything that brings me joy.  Essentially, the whole reason I quit full-time work and decided to go through the stress and uncertainty of putting myself through college is the one thing I'm not using my suddenly AMPLE HOME TIME doing.  

And I'd very much like to change that.  

So here I am... writing this letter.  Telling you random things that are on my mind.  Knowing... (hoping?)... that neither of you will EVER read this.  Right?  Maybe, after all of the other prompts are finished or whatever, I'll continue writing to you both about my day and my struggles and my projects.  Because why the hell not?  You're both already like the nerdy, understanding, choice-affirming fathers I never had?  

My papa wasn't bad, he was just a stereotypical dad, who expected his kids to be tough all the time, couldn't deal with emotions, and watched football with a beer in his hand yelling at the tv on Sundays.  He didn't understand the proclivity to read all day or write well or watch shows on sociology and scientific experimentation.  He didn't understand much of anything that wasn't 'working on a career' or 'sport-related current events.'  He definitely didn't understand how to deal with a child who moved away from home, started learning about the world intellectually and largely unbiasedly for the first time, and developed views and opinions of their own, for themself, after seeing how the world really worked with their own eyes.  

So I see you, my two tv dads, as the parent he's unlikely to ever be... and it helps me to know there are dads like you out there, even if parts of it are shows put on for your audiences.  And I do hope to meet you both one day, as one of your guests, and (if we can ever hug again) give you both hugs to thank you for helping to raise me, keep me informed, and prepare me to survive the batshit, bonkers world that currently exists around us all.  

My best to you both and to your families,