Dear weekly editor,
who I’ve spent decades regarding as a national treasure, I got your letter concerning my manuscript. Power trip notwithstanding, I think branding me a stalker is pure misunderstanding, yep, bit of a stretch there, Jack. But it’s OK. I don’t take it as a personal attack until there’s a court order. Back to business, shall we? If it makes you feel bolder, we can meet in a dark alley like they do in my fiction, which you called “shit-eating grin in an insufferable prison”.
I don’t get it, though. Should I change the setting? It could be my prose. Those characters sure are spending a lot of time in mundane backdrops, aren’t they? I suppose…..if they were tending to the drunks rather than cradling unrequited love, would that work? Man, I can hear the gears turn but I really need your opinion, Jack. Please mail me back, or you’ll be hearing from me, and I’m a man of my word.
I’ve attached my latest project, a godless work of art. It has the heart of a cult classic, and neuroses of a sadist, but I assure you it’s quite painless deciphering the parts in Braille. (Small note: toward the penultimate scene it may seem I had run out of steam, but I believe I’ve prevailed in every sense of a climax.) For the denouement, I wrote it all in Comic Sans, so be on the lookout for that.
Oh, and I was writing my acknowledgements, and it only made sense to include you, sir. Your way with horrible words has only made my writing stronger.
Hey Jackie Boy,
It’s been three months and change since I heard your word processed voice- I imagine it sounds like a cloudy spring morning- and even my spam folders aren’t singing. I’m sure you’re out slinging my proposal to the big wigs and royals, negotiating movie rights for the masterpiece I toiled over. Just don’t forget about me, buddy, or just send the cheque by October. You’re my four-leaved clover, boss.
Oh my God.
I read they just found you in your office, holding two forks in a power socket. It was on the news, camera crews fixated on blue Crayola op-eds down your walls. Make the barrage of mail stop, they spell; the midnight mails and manuscripts that pelt my cell phone like old tomatoes. I’m alone with his grammar, atrocious storylines and bad manners. The kid just can’t take a hint.
Huh. I wonder what poor sap he meant.