So I gotta tell ya, this whole farewell letter thing started bugging me last week when my buddy Mike stopped returning texts. Dude used to ping me daily, then radio silence. Finally called his sister – turns out he’s moving cross-country for a construction gig. Didn’t even tell me!
Step Zero: What Actually Helped Me Start Writing
Grabbed a crumpled burger receipt and a leaking pen off my desk, thinking I’d scribble something real quick. Ended up staring at that greasy paper for 20 minutes straight. Blank mind. Just kept circling random words like “dude” and “remember”. Realized I needed structure.
How I Tackled The Actual Letter
- Step 1 – Dumping All My Garbage Thoughts: Pulled out a legal pad around 11PM. Wrote down every memory that popped in – that time Mike drove 3 hours when my car died in a rainstorm, how he’d always steal fries off my plate, even the nasty fight we had over poker debts last summer. Pages looked like a toddler’s scribbles. Didn’t censor anything.
- Step 2 – Killing My Darlings: Morning coffee in hand, I crossed out half that junk. Poker fight? Gone. Inside jokes only we’d get? Nope, kept one about that raccoon incident. Focused on what’d matter in 5 years.
- Step 3 – Shaping The Damn Thing: Split it into three chunks: First paragraph straight-up said “Heard you’re leaving – gonna miss you”. Second chunk threw in two specific stories showing why he’s awesome. Last bit wished him luck with his new job WITHOUT faking excitement about Kansas construction sites.
- Step 4 – Faking Casual Tone: Read it aloud. Sounded like a robot quoting a dictionary. Scratched out fancy words like “endeavor” and “cherish”. Wrote “damn” and “hell” like we actually talk. Added a dumb doodle of the raccoon.
- Step 5 – Ripping Off The Band-Aid: Did NOT let myself overthink. Slipped it in an old envelope I found under my keyboard, slapped on a stamp, and walked straight to the mailbox. Didn’t even proofread. Felt like dropping a grenade in the box.
Weeks Later – What Actually Happened
Mike texted yesterday. Just three words: “Got it. Thanks.” But the screenshot he sent showed my damn raccoon doodle pinned to his jobsite trailer. Felt better than any polished essay.
Moral? Forget perfect. Write like you’d talk if you bumped into them at a shitty dive bar. And draw stupid raccoons.
