Latey McLaterson
So, I haven't been posting lately, can you guess why? That's right, it's because I haven't been doing my work. Well, that's not completely true, but I've been in somewhat of a rut creatively speaking. Anyway, I did get one story done, and I'm working on two others to keep my mind off of the fact that I haven't made progress on my final project in a while.
Here we go:
Dear Kelsey,
Hi sweetie, I hope you’re enjoying class right now, as I’m sure you’re hard at work doing what you Theatre majors do. I remember that time I took you to that play in the park, the lilies, the trees, the wind, and the troupe of players acting out that performance art piece. Sure, seeing the man climb out of the giant, green plastic vagina and proceeding to shit on a Bulgarian flag while cursing in a language that I can still only really describe as a mix of Latin, Russian, and something-like-Klingon wasn’t the most romantic thing in the world, but I think the statement that he was making was valid, and we should have stayed, if only to see what happened to the midget with the flaming arrow stuck in the turtle shell on his back.
See, this is the problem that we’ve had. That day, our third anniversary, you got mad at me for bringing you there. I put a lot of time and work into finding that advertisement tacked onto a board at my favorite alternative coffeehouse. Yes, you know the one, The Caf, the only brewery in town that serves bean free coffee (indeed, the only people I know of that respect my, and other Ultra-Vegans’ need to not eat or drink anything that has ever lived). But still, you got mad. You said that those people were crazy, that I never take you anywhere nice, anywhere normal, that you’re tired of only going to coffee shops that serve, as you call it, “just hot water”. In short, that day, you told me that you don’t appreciate art.
I never, EVER thought that I would be in a relationship with someone who would deride a person for doing what they love, and for changing the world through their art. And for the most part, you haven’t, but this, the e-mail I received today, was the last straw.
When I sent you my novel, it was not for you to judge with your plebian views on art. Your “critique” if you can call it that was callous, misinformed, totally missed the point of the work, and just plain stupid. I’ll highlight the worst parts of your review of it, and my reaction to them:
Exhibit A: “I don’t know why the first 12 pages are blank”
Ha. You’re kidding, right? You couldn’t break down what I was saying? It’s called a STATEMENT. Look, how many books have you read where the first 12 pages have content on them? Think. How many? Hundreds, probably; historically speaking, the first twelve pages of most novels have words on them. Well, I’m sorry for challenging your ideas on what constitutes a novel. I didn’t realize that there was some divine mandate for all books to have words on their first twelve pages. A world where works of literature have to have the first dozen pages contain letters and words is not a world that I want to live in.
Exhibit B: “The main character, Minute (is it Minute like time, or like the basketball player?), why does he say “Bring him with triumph unto his house” so many times, at seemingly random intervals; in fact, rarely, if ever, having to do with the context of the book?
My God. First of all, Minute is NOT the main character; EXISTENCE itself was the main character. Secondly: I never thought I’d be seen with someone who wouldn’t understand a Shakespeare reference when they saw one. Yes, SHAKESPEARE. He’s an author that you may have heard of. It’s from JULIUS CAESAR, a play that he wrote. You could look it up in a book, if you wanted to, but I’ll just explain my reasoning for it now. I was re-deconstructing the myth of quoting Shakespeare. With that quote, I was examining what it is to allude to Shakespeare in a work, and how banal it can be. Authors have been doing it for too long, frankly. Allusion is the illusion of collusion. And I want no collusion from William Shakespeare, a man who is supposedly so great, even though I’ve never seen any of his works start out with 12 blank pages.
There were other issues I had with your critique, but they aren’t important any more. Your essay was a tale told by an idiot (you might realize that that was another Shakespeare reference, you see, I continue my proto-post-postmodernism even in my e-mails), and I’m really writing to say that I can’t see you anymore. I cannot respect someone who doesn’t appreciate my work, something I’ve poured my blood, sweat and tears into, which you would have recognized had you been more artistically keen. Chapter 11 is produced on paper that I mixed my blood, sweat and tears into while it was still pulp.
I’m sorry if this comes as a surprise to you, and I’m sorry that I have to do this in e-mail, but you’re at work right now, and though I tried, there simply wasn’t enough room on your mirror for me to write this out in my own blood.
Apologies,
-S.
Here we go:
Dear Kelsey,
Hi sweetie, I hope you’re enjoying class right now, as I’m sure you’re hard at work doing what you Theatre majors do. I remember that time I took you to that play in the park, the lilies, the trees, the wind, and the troupe of players acting out that performance art piece. Sure, seeing the man climb out of the giant, green plastic vagina and proceeding to shit on a Bulgarian flag while cursing in a language that I can still only really describe as a mix of Latin, Russian, and something-like-Klingon wasn’t the most romantic thing in the world, but I think the statement that he was making was valid, and we should have stayed, if only to see what happened to the midget with the flaming arrow stuck in the turtle shell on his back.
See, this is the problem that we’ve had. That day, our third anniversary, you got mad at me for bringing you there. I put a lot of time and work into finding that advertisement tacked onto a board at my favorite alternative coffeehouse. Yes, you know the one, The Caf, the only brewery in town that serves bean free coffee (indeed, the only people I know of that respect my, and other Ultra-Vegans’ need to not eat or drink anything that has ever lived). But still, you got mad. You said that those people were crazy, that I never take you anywhere nice, anywhere normal, that you’re tired of only going to coffee shops that serve, as you call it, “just hot water”. In short, that day, you told me that you don’t appreciate art.
I never, EVER thought that I would be in a relationship with someone who would deride a person for doing what they love, and for changing the world through their art. And for the most part, you haven’t, but this, the e-mail I received today, was the last straw.
When I sent you my novel, it was not for you to judge with your plebian views on art. Your “critique” if you can call it that was callous, misinformed, totally missed the point of the work, and just plain stupid. I’ll highlight the worst parts of your review of it, and my reaction to them:
Exhibit A: “I don’t know why the first 12 pages are blank”
Ha. You’re kidding, right? You couldn’t break down what I was saying? It’s called a STATEMENT. Look, how many books have you read where the first 12 pages have content on them? Think. How many? Hundreds, probably; historically speaking, the first twelve pages of most novels have words on them. Well, I’m sorry for challenging your ideas on what constitutes a novel. I didn’t realize that there was some divine mandate for all books to have words on their first twelve pages. A world where works of literature have to have the first dozen pages contain letters and words is not a world that I want to live in.
Exhibit B: “The main character, Minute (is it Minute like time, or like the basketball player?), why does he say “Bring him with triumph unto his house” so many times, at seemingly random intervals; in fact, rarely, if ever, having to do with the context of the book?
My God. First of all, Minute is NOT the main character; EXISTENCE itself was the main character. Secondly: I never thought I’d be seen with someone who wouldn’t understand a Shakespeare reference when they saw one. Yes, SHAKESPEARE. He’s an author that you may have heard of. It’s from JULIUS CAESAR, a play that he wrote. You could look it up in a book, if you wanted to, but I’ll just explain my reasoning for it now. I was re-deconstructing the myth of quoting Shakespeare. With that quote, I was examining what it is to allude to Shakespeare in a work, and how banal it can be. Authors have been doing it for too long, frankly. Allusion is the illusion of collusion. And I want no collusion from William Shakespeare, a man who is supposedly so great, even though I’ve never seen any of his works start out with 12 blank pages.
There were other issues I had with your critique, but they aren’t important any more. Your essay was a tale told by an idiot (you might realize that that was another Shakespeare reference, you see, I continue my proto-post-postmodernism even in my e-mails), and I’m really writing to say that I can’t see you anymore. I cannot respect someone who doesn’t appreciate my work, something I’ve poured my blood, sweat and tears into, which you would have recognized had you been more artistically keen. Chapter 11 is produced on paper that I mixed my blood, sweat and tears into while it was still pulp.
I’m sorry if this comes as a surprise to you, and I’m sorry that I have to do this in e-mail, but you’re at work right now, and though I tried, there simply wasn’t enough room on your mirror for me to write this out in my own blood.
Apologies,
-S.
posted by SCY at 12:44 PM
2 comments
