January 29th, 2018 - The Boundary

Dear TNY,

Ugh, cardinal sin in “The Boundary.”  What sin is that?  Theft.  I know, I know.  You think I’m going to say time.  That you stole my time.  You didn’t.  You squandered my time.  Here’s how you did that.

There are seven characters, all unnamed, in the first three paragraphs.  I don’t give two shits, as my dad would say, about any of them.  Why?  They are cardboard people.  Like popsicle sticks in a children’s puppet show, their little faces drawn so poorly they cannot be distinguished from one another.  The father is added, to make eight, very shortly after.  From an editorial standpoint, I expect you to intervene and ask that the author give us something to care about.  You did not, TNY.  Note, not only did you squander my time, you did a huge disservice to the author.

The father who gets his teeth kicked in?  I want to crack my chest open and slip him inside, tauntaun style, to keep him warm and protect him from the horrible world.  Now, that’s an accomplishment on the author’s part.  Where you failed that author, that I can see, is by allowing the leading 75% of this story to be so fucking bland and devoid of characterization, emotion, or scene that the reader has to choke it down like dry oatmeal just to get to the only part of this writing that matters.  Do you like dry oatmeal?  Is it you, TNY, that’s the only known finisher of the cinnamon challenge?  

You have taken a character whose development is important and visceral and ripped the heft of that from my grasp.  I’m not sure why you couldn’t dial down all the parts that aren’t working (every-motherfucking-thing else) and dial up the only part that is.  Maybe, TNY, you were afraid.  Were you afraid that the glowing ball of light at the center of this story (correction: 75% of the way through, not center) would not hit so heavy if the rest of the writing was respectable?  Did you not see?  Am I correct in believing that you relish the stoppage of dry oatmeal in your throat?  The loss of breath?  The complete desperation for air or water or anything other than this?  Yes, that must be what you want for the evidence tells me so.

Oh, there was one good image of the mom (Which mom?  You’ll have to guess because you insisted the author not label them.  Baller move, big guy).  

Here’s to hoping we can get drunk together and put all this behind us while we slide into the chemical unknown, you finally being vulnerable and me, finally seeing (and not just believing in) that thing I have respected in you all along that you choose to hide behind your phony fucking shield,

Nick