I have been quiet until this point less from respect than the silence of malice. I reject this blog. This tedious and hackneyed vanity. What foolishness persuaded you that this scheme would do any more than annoy your friends and supply you with more excuses to avoid submitting the sorry crap you produce to any real publishers? The past 41 entries in this diabolical treatise have shown moments of amusement, buried deep amongst lines of predictable babble and overly wordy, repetitive drivel. Your descent into patterns of over trod garbage infuriates me beyond belief, leaving me more than a little bemused. I realise you labour in some deluded hope of redemption and laugh at the sure knowledge in a 1000 years the pulp from Jordan’s 12 volume autobiography will be worshiped as of greater literary merit than anything you are capable of producing in your pathetic lifetime.
So, prepare for the final indignity. I have taken the liberty of assuming full editorial control of the final phase of this project. You shall write the last 10 rejections under conditions entirely beyond your control. Those who read this, please inflict by twitter, facebook or comment direct the exact specification for this author’s hell. Each week he will attempt to satisfy your whims through a requested rejection, tailored to your desire. It is clear he lacks his own inspiration, so provide it him with a little kick. Maybe he’ll rise to the challenge, but I suspect not and think that by the first week of January he will bother you no more. I will complete the damnation in the 53rd week ending this charade for good.
There are so many way I could say no to this submission. I could point out the stupidity of your plot devices or perhaps ridicule your jarring dialogue, but in no way would that communicate the true depth of my displeasure. There is no system of measurement to illustrate how bad you are and even if a I am called to account for these feelings, my words would undermine the bitterness you provoke. They say that some stand on the shoulders of giants, I fear you have fallen down a hole.
A lion, in a hat, on the motorway. Gerbils crafting elysium. Stones of grateful scorn. Championship mud . The comfort of a cobbled bed. Infinite compassion, peaceful negotiation and an endless summer. Holiness. Wisdom. Altruistic behaviour. Winning everything and losing nothing. Seeing it all. Understanding. All more likely than your success.
I was in a pleasant mood this morning; I awoke refreshed and serene. It seemed as if the day was ready to give me a pass, but then a knock, the dog barking and a rush from my coffee and toast. Half opening the door with the dog in one hand and a mug in the other, I see a bedraggled postman thrusting his electronic device in my face along with your soggy package. Signing it carelessly I grab the package, slam the door and drop the piece of toast I’d been holding in my mouth. The dog eats it and I kick the arm chair and swear. After this your manuscript should have landed straight in the bin or been thrown out my flat window to the top deck of a passing bus for the pigeons to enjoy, but I was feeling generous. Nothing could have prepared me for the gargantuan heap of excrement you had left me. You had the nerve to disturb my Saturday for this? It read like the passionless confessional of a bored traffic warden, justifying his existence to a world that doesn’t care, with a few light hearted anecdotes about his hobby of collecting toenails. It was not good! Besides, how did you get my home address?
So you finally showed your face and only to shame yourself in the process. I am not impressed by you pleading or excuses. Late is late. So there!