May 21st, 2018 - The Long Black Line

Dear TNY,

Well, “The Long Black Line” is the 20th story this year and this is my 20th letter and I have to say I regret this project.  Why regret? Because I can do anything with my time. I could build a house. Learn the violin. Hone my own writing. I could learn the history of the Vernal Equinox or I could learn to speak Thai.  Instead, I’m wasting irreconcilable seconds/minutes/hours on your worthless fiction.

This story was as predictable as Harry Potter, and less entertaining.  It takes zero risks, has one semi-interesting character (Father Scarface), and is rife with garbage sentences like this:

He looked frankly around the refectory at his brother Jesuits.

You should be ashamed of yourself.  There are many excellent writers out there and some of the best suffer from Imposter Syndrome.  While they're out busting their asses to avoid the discovery that they don’t know what they are doing, you’re leaning back in your chair contemplating the infinite wisdom of the lint in your navel.  It would be nice if instead of wasting all the sheets of paper for horrorshow fiction, you put something akin to this in your magazine:

Dear Readers,

We heard you.  And we are sorry.  As of now, the Fiction Editor is stepping down and this is an open call for a replacement willing to uphold our slogan of The Best Writing Anywhere.  Everywhere.

These pages will remain devoid of fiction until such time we feel we have something that will earn back your respect.

Again, we apologize.  We know we’ve lost our way.  But, out of respect for literary art, we’re not going to stop until we use these pages correctly.

TNY

But…you won’t.  You’ll continue to finger-bang each other’s anuses and, years from now, wonder what happened.  Answer: Your self-satisfaction distracted you from the fact that the world passed you by, bitches.

I honestly don’t know how long I can keep this up.  In 20 stories, you’ve only given me maybe three worth reading.  I’m so fucking frustrated with you. The internal debate I’m having right now is 1) do I stop, get my life back, and read better material or 2) do I refuse to back down.  It’s a real dilemma. I don’t think I have it in me to give up, though. So, in this world of illusion, as you march down the street in your new clothes, I’ll be there waiting to say, “Hey motherfucker, you’re naked.”

Until the next trash-heap that you force-feed us thinking we are plebes,

Nick

P.S. it takes real effort to render compassion through human contact to be completely devoid of emotion for the reader.  Two thumbs up!