I could publish this story you have sent me, it would be entirely possible. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. There is a twist. It has characters and a situation in which they interact to reach, understand and explore their motivations. In fact, I found it exciting and interesting, it reignited my enthusiasm for literature that you had produced a work such as this. And yet, if I were to publish this story, who are it’s audience? Truly, I do not believe there are people out here with the intellect, the understanding of life or even the basic sense to cope with reading this. The minute the average reader cast their eyes on the magnificence of your opening sentence they would be ruined for any future experience, not just of reading, but if life itself. Your writing is dangerous. Please stop.
Some day past I liked your stuff, when it was fun and full of laughs, we used to dig your quirks of grammar, and love your casual spelling stammer, but last week this forever changed. I heard a story from a mate, who said his mother knew a guy and as he was walking down the high street and thought he saw someone like you and that you did behave uncouth, when requested by a shop assistant, whether you would purchase freely any items he was selling. He said the guy who ran the shop, was struggling hard to move his stock, but you just stood and browsed like at a library shelf and paid no attention to his financial health, so he worried, face full of panic and asked politely if you’d finished, but you answered in disdain that you would take your time and made it plain, that you would only buy a book, when ready, happy and fancy took, but that if you chose or not, you would sit and flick through all his goods. Now tell me, as I ask politely, is this behaviour ever helpful? And from a man who plays with words to treat a business so absurd, when all he wanted from your pocket, was some coins or for you to stop it, and in the end you hurt the most, as now your novel I’ll turn to toast. But now please do you understand, I judge you a dishonest man, for what I heard some bloke said you did or someone whose face did fit, an act of which I did not like and hope you struggle with your life. And finally, as my conclusion, I choose to think from all this fooling, that you and all your author kind, are all thieves from each others minds and only hope to make a buck, from selling me what you have got, yet never spend a penny where, I take the coins that pay your fair.
This is my third attempt to pen this missive, I fear the technology is infected by some impish mischief. I write with greatest respect for your work and magnificent efforts. Please, before reading this letter, I ask only that you consider my words as those of kindness sent deeply to a person I hold in uppermost esteem and want only for the advancement of your glorious self. When I first sat by my fireplace on that cold November evening, it was with a sense of awe and amazement that I perused the pages and was filled with joy at having received such a timely contribution to our cannon. The subtlety of your prose, your elegant use of superfluous adjectives, the way you underlined whole passages in bold for emphasis, all produced an atmosphere I cannot compare. I was particularly fond of your repeated references to Hollywood movies that showed your engagement with culture in a way that could never be accused of plagiarism. Yet sadly we must say no, as on this occasion we have been sent such a bounty of such literary adventures that we have decided to keep none of it. Correct, this leaves us without a publication for December, but I fear it is the only way to make a fair selection. We wish you the best in all your future endeavours and hope you understand why we leave our pages blank for now.
(commissioned by his satanic majesties department for the quality assurance of torturous fandangoes. ” Transporto nos vestri consilium quod nos mos eat vestri liberi.”)
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.
You destroyed my life. I hold you personally responsible for the spiral of crap that it has become. I’ll admit that I live in a reasonable level of comfort, with a nice home, a loving partner and steady job I quite enjoy, but still, you have caused me a level of suffering that I can only to compare medieval torture. Ten years ago, I wrote to you humbly requesting a minor contribution to fund my future ambition of a bohemian lifestyle fuelled by booze and coffee, writing some kind of novel and hanging around cafes. I didn’t expect to get anything. I didn’t even expect a reply. But thats not the point. My letter was a result of damage you had already committed. A year earlier I was working in a well known high street music outlet in Canterbury. I joined the staff team on the busy run up to Christmas, having recently fled a hellish part time position at Chatham Tescos. Filled with dreams of rock and roll and laconic discourse on bad jazz; I donned my black t-shirt, marked only by a small red badge to signify its purpose as a uniform. I felt free and entered work with a spring in my step and a smile on my lips, little did I know the horror that awaited me inside said store. For three months I was subjected to a punishing ritual of repetition, an aggravated assault on my ear drums; your catalogue of ‘hits’ played in relentless cycles of unpitying evil rattling around my skull. Those drum beats killed me. Furthermore, to complete the damage, on Christmas Eve the store manager handed me a fifty pound note and a signed copy of Richard Branson’s autobiography. He glibly announced this prize was for my part in making our store number one in the south east for selling your CD. As I kicked ‘Virgin’ along the wintery street, I was consumed by feelings of filth and violation; of disgust and self loathing at my whorish part in your happy xmas. When I sent you that letter, with its insincere demands, self deprecating humour and mock hope of a decadent existence, I hoped to exercise my demons and move on from this irrational vendetta. But, as I said earlier, I did not expect a reply. In my final days of hope and laziness, it landed on my doormat like a defecating elephant. The letter poured into my hands and ignited the shimmering pool of meths in my stomach. It explained your appreciation of my situation and that with respect that you would be unable to help me on this occasion. It informed me of your myriad of charitable activities and wished me well with my endeavours. I would like you to imagine the steel that formed in my eyes as I read these words and that remains to this day. It wasn’t the refusal, I didn’t care about the money. It was a joke you self entitled, pompous shit! Now come on, give me some money and let me have a bit of fun. Please?
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?