April 21, 2016
It pains my fucking heart that I have to sit here and beg you to notice me. That your opinion about these words will ultimately dictate the value of my work. Fuck you. Who the fuck are you to determine the value of genuine human expression?
I mean, I know what you want. You want commas and periods, sentences and paragraphs, big multisyllabic words of “experimental”, “ethnic”, “experiential”, “no erotica” writing. But I really don’t feel like impressing you, sir or ma’am, and I’d rather just give it to you straight. So here it is:
I wrote a book. It’s a collection of thoughts that sound exactly like this letter. Some may call it a cross between Joyce’s Ulysses and Holden Caulfield’s grieving despondent spirit. Others may say it’s the voice of a generation, a 21st-century “Howl” or Naked Lunch. Frankly, I don’t quite care what they think. It is what it is. Take it or leave it.
I hope you’ll read this and be impressed and call me and tell me it’s the work of a genius and that you can’t wait to get it off the press. That’d be great. If you don’t, I’ll probably just send it to like thirty other people and after that, I’ll probably give up and print it myself. But it would make my life a hell of a lot easier if you would just print the fucking thing already. I hate kissing ass.
Thank you for your time and dedication to all that you do.