To whom it may concern,
I am concerned.
How anyone can leave An Enemy of the People in love is beyond me. Alas, I fear I have assumed this cruel fate. And this weekend of all weekends… well, it appears some higher power mocks me.
This letter is somewhat speculative; initially, on account of its interest to you beyond the first sentence.
Still with me?
I’m struggling. For some time now I have been trying to write the perfect story; a story that couldn’t fail to stir emotions within even the most resolutely Simon Cowell of characters. However, I appear to be unable to rouse the muse, whence my modern masterpiece may flow. And it is not for lack of ideas; for lack of characters, conflicts, places, worlds, words, and other such narrative paraphernalia.
I am perplexed.
[By Poppy Corbett]
Some months ago I wrote a letter to you. I haven’t written a letter for years, but felt compelled to. Perhaps it was a reflex action in the wake of That Thing That Shall Not Be Named Or Given Credibility But That Happened And That, In Not Giving It Credibility, We Merely Strengthen Its Insidious Resolve. In any case, I wrote, I saved, I thought about sending, I stopped, I reconsidered, I forgot, I remembered, I re-read, forgot some more, and now here I am, Palimpsestuous.