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A letter from Fleming to the sane

Saturday 2/9/19

Here is a letter. It went off to several people. The letter is about two blurbs, from a note I encountered on Facebook. They are typical of the people in publishing.


...


These are the kind of people who blacklist me. Look at this. Always pretentious, always insane, always stupid. This sounds like a real treat to read. Good Christ these people are such talentless losers. This is why no one reads.

If this wasn't happening to me, and I didn't fight every day not to kill myself, I'd laugh at this. Maybe someday I'll get to laugh into TV cameras about the sewage I had to fight through and where those losers of this subculture--and publishing is just one sick subculture--of the publishing fecaliana are now. A blurb that reads "emancipating us from Cartesian solitude and into the holy space of conjoined mortalities." Cool, bro. With "evidence of the anthropocene." Well. Why didn't you say so? I get rock hard for that kind of evidence. This is what they want. This is what is published, celebrated, the kind of thing that they go looking to find. If these blurbs are this dickishly pretentious, do you know what the book is? And these three losers think they are better than everyone, and they don't want anyone outside of the sick system of fecaliana to like their work, because they think work is better when no person on earth can understand it. And along I come, with work that is infinitely smarter, real art, and that is more entertaining than anything has been, and they hate me. They block me. They write and publish this bilge, and they publish this bilge by other people, often friends, but always people just like them. All losers. Then they pick some of the losers to win the awards. Because someone has to be MVP each year. And the trickle down effect is that this is what you experience--you call it different things--if you are out in the world. So you stop reading. No one reads. This is why. The rest of the world remains completely oblivious to why this is happening, and they just assume that Netflix must be the best thing going and there's nothing else. Meanwhile, these unwell, untalented delusionals get to inbreed with each other like trust fund versions of the creatures in Deliverance, and no one is the wiser, because the world at large has no clue and thus can't care, and these walking mental fetuses just want to go on being what they are. And along I come, with what I do. And cue waves and waves and waves of hate, envy, fear. And that is a summation of the entire problem. Sure, there's more. But that's a lot of it.

I asked my brilliant friends to write blurbs for my new book. They both did an incredible job. Love you, (redacted), and (redacted)!


“(Redacted)'s visionary requiem for her sister spears like broken glass through the palm, emancipating us from Cartesian solitude and into the holy space of conjoined mortalities. Her lyricism crafts a cathedral to house both the heaven our bodies were and the hells the flesh must endure. Here, memories hunt for their other half in forms now mourned, and, in death, ripened into meadowlark and tree branch. Here, we learn to read from the compendium of the beasts and their communal worlding. Here, (Redacted) excavates language to our human foundations, illuminating the self we made through the other: and we are colony, the hive and the flock. (Redacted)'s brilliant (Redacted) presses us against the afterlife, and, in radiant revelations, achieves, as if in living diorama, the body as an epistle of love.” —(Redacted), author of (Redacted)


“To call a work ‘poignant’ is to say its needle has pierced you, that you may touch the needle quick at work as it restitches what’s split or frayed. (Redacted) wounds me like this. At the center we find: traces of a sister, animal dioramas, feathers, stray threads, evidence of the anthropocene. A calm, unflinching clarity lights this work that glimmers with (Redacted)'s swift and bewitched imagination wielding a power to transform words before our eyes, as hem turns to hymn to hemoglobin to hemisphere. (Redacted) leads us into that hemisphere long darkened by despair while holding the small illuminations of this music: ‘We blank our voices / going forward into the night. Uvula as lantern.’ ” —(Redacted), author of (Redacted)