Monday, July 3, 2017
Dear Publisher, my feelings
I hate you.
I can't believe I just said that. What a horrible thing to tell someone, especially a stranger who is simply trying to live a life of decency, service, and love. How could I say such a thing to someone trying to promote books and reading and make a viable market for authors? I feel terrible. I wish I could take it back.
Actually, I could take it back. It would be easy enough for me to delete all this. And I probably should take it back.
But I can't. Because I hate you.
"What did I do?" You cry.
Oh, you know what you did, you miscreant, you hoodlum. You said no.
All this hard work I have done as a writer. I have given everything I have. I have been funny, wise, clever, and persevering. I have thought things through. I have ridden the tornado of words all the twisting way to Oz. I have taken a moderate amount of native talent and uncompromisingly buffed it to such a sheen that you can see myself in it. If only you'd look, which you won't. You monster.
I have written great things, but who will find them without you and your ilk. Almost no one. I have composed beautiful, careful, wild, hungry, mad, and extraordinary pieces of literature. But you said no. No!
Or at least you would say no, if I ever sent you any of them.
I like to think I have a bit more sense than to do that, you bastard.