Intervention by Post

A letter I received today.

Dear Jamie,

We’ve decided to hold an intervention.

I’ve been rummaging around in your head for the last decade and I’ve gotten to know a lot of people you’ve left here. Some of them are good people. Some of them are bastards like me and some of them just wish they were. There are a few who go on for pages yet still feel like shadows. There are some, no longer than a few words, who I know better than I know myself. There are some you ought to have killed off early, and some you didn’t keep around long enough…

Ok, I can only take so much of that crap. Let’s cut the flowery lead and get right to the point, shall we?

We want you to write. All of us.

We don’t really give a damn how you do it. You can write it in blood if you want, or you can be a bit more practical and use the keyboard. You can write about any one of us or pluck someone new out of the slush and give them the run of the stage. It really doesn’t matter.

Just sit down and bang something out. It’s what you want to do anyway. Really. I’m the one on the inside, so I know what I’m talking about.


Burt Thompson

On behalf of:

Paul, Renee, Kyle, and that squinty kid I shot
John Skelton, Lydia, and Kitty
The Entire Snarkie Family and the City of Swellington
Duane and Rosa
Simeon Drake
YASBN and Mia
Barbara, Ali, and Ella Schilling
Lenny and Anders, Dragon Bob, and that bitch Sharon
Martin Ustoff
20Chan and bad_karma
Jeremy Shade, Count Spatula, and everyone at dinner
Brian and Rachel
Dick Branford, Davis and Shirley Watson
Charlie D, Dolly, and Lu
Clay and Roy and whatever got hold of them way out in space
Liz, Prometheus, and all the goats who had to die
Julian and Cleopatra
Walter, Katia, and Hans-Joerg
Azul Flores and Hawaii Jumbo
Dmitri and General Tanaka
Joe and Kleiner, Seamus Reilly, John Doe, and Gracie
Carl, Tom, Grandfather Henry, and the Albany Cutter
Eleia and Quitoxyl
Phineas Orleans, Ben Shoals, Miss Chaldea, Old Joad, and Truman

P. S. Kip Frazier wants me to remind you, “You promised all of us something if we danced our dances. Now it’s time to pay up, Mister Writer Man.”

How strange is that?

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