The following is in response to Carrie Mumford’s essay “The Blemish Colelctor” that I read via Vine Leaves, an online literary journal.
Mumford’s short essay reveals a unique part of herself—instead of lusting over the perfections of people, she indulges in the imperfect features. The wondrous detail in her essay shows her fantasizing over “once-broken collarbones” and “a burn, stretching from elbow to wrist.” The images that she invokes in such a short amount of space is impeccable.
There is nothing that I don’t like about the essay, only that I urge Mumford to expand on it—what flaws are written onto your body that make you unique? When did this obsession start? Is there a scene in that beautiful mind of yours of you with a past lover slavering over his/hers tantalizingly imperfect body? Progressing as a writer, I will ask myself these questions as well.