Dear David,

This is not a real letter in the sense that I will be sending it to you, or that you will one day see it and read it in its entirety. But I have elected to write it regardless because I can’t not.

Where to begin?

I first met you in an awful place. The kind that I deplore. Seattle in February is nothing to write home about unless it to describe the horrendous whether. It makes little sense to me why a writing convention would be held there in the first place. If I recall correctly the streets were slicked with near freezing rain and the clouds filter all of the warm the sun might cast so the whole city feels like it’s under fluorescent lighting. As some cruel trick the temperature hangs at solid 39 degrees all winter long, just cold enough to make the wet chill to the bone, but not cold enough to snow. The city’s a real charmer. If I made a my own personal, “Greatest cities in the USA,” I’d put Seattle, and perhaps the whole of the Northwest, very near the bottom. Probably on either side of Detroit.

Not only does the weather ruin any chance of enjoyment of what is pretentiously coined “The Emerald City,” (I can only conclude it is referred as that because, like in the Wizard of Oz, it is full of disappointments), but the people prance about in the rain without umbrellas with smirks on their faces as though they are all in on some secret. It is wholly annoying and I can’t, for the life of me, understand what they all to be so smug about. It’s arrogance, that’s what it is, David, complete and total arrogance.

Despite the horrible weather and the unfortunate people one may have to deal with when visiting the city, I was pleased with the convention, weren’t you? Like anything of such magnitude the organization could have stood to be better, but the space at the convention center was a nice one. Once inside the doors you could forget about the rain (though not the people, ha!) and go about your business.

The book fair was a bit frightening and some of the booth were not as literary as one might hope, but some of the panels were quite informative despite the amount of literary plankton that was present. I suppose it is part of the sadness of being a published writer, is it not? that we must indulge such timid creatures.

The panel you were on was to do with the blending of fantasy and literature. It is a dangerous topic, I dare say, as unless the publisher knows your name you might not make it past the first reader–though this is not a problem for you, I’m sure. I didn’t like to say so when I came to meet you after the panel was over, but why stray from the truth of the matter, the realism of our world. Please, David, do not debase your work with the fluff of the masses in order to draw readers. Instead, take into consideration the real issues of your work. Flee from psychics and worlds beyond our own, for they are not real, true issues that illuminate our world for others; and in the end that is our job as artists, to show others the way.



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