Ham-Handed Commentary

So, my good friend Daniel Abraham, author of The Long Price Quartet and The Dragon's Path published this on SFSignal yesterday.

It is a love letter from genre to literature.  It is quite sweet.  It is quite accurate.  But, to me, it is not accurate in tone.  Personally, I don't see our relationship as something that would be put down in a love letter.  No.  Ours is a more visceral relationship, filled with love and hate.  The kind that can only be captured by a drunken voicemail left late at night.

And it goes something like this…

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

 

 

 

"Hi, you've reached Mainstream Literature.  I can't come to the phone right now, because I don't own one.  Please leave a message after the beep."

BEEP.

 

 

 

 

 

"The fuck?  That's what you're calling yourself now?  Mainstream literature?  Like, you're for everyone now?  The main?  The stream?  Like we're all just little salmons swimming along in your stream and everybody can come have a bite of your fresh-ass krill?  When the fuck did this happen?  Last time we talked, you said you wanted to remain exclusive.  You we're all: 'no, no, Genre, we can't do this.  I must remain faithful to the spirit of my art.'  Like…like that's a thing?  Like I don't do…uh…art…'n shit?

"Sorry, I've been, like, jamming mead for the past, like, six hours.  Then George came over and he brought a glazed duck and we were all getting fucked up on honey-basted fowl, its delectable juices filling our mouths on tides of ecstasy, only to be smothered again by the crispness of the fresh chestnut salad and finally quenched with another round of the finest honeyed ale and–

"Oh, what?  What?  Was I describing a feast again?  Was I feasting, Literature?  Was that too fucking raw for you?  Well, fucking GET USED TO IT.  That's what I do now.  I've got my own fucking friends now, I don't need your shit.  I've got amigos and we all roll seven legions deep, fuckin' tossin' back ale and slammin' dragon's blood, yo.  What's that?  You want to ride with us?  FUCK THAT SHIT.  THIS WARHORSE HOLDS ONLY ONE FUCKIN' STALLION, BITCH.  OH, WHAT, A STALLION CAN'T RIDE A WARHORSE NOW?  IN GENRE, IT CAN!

"So yeah, this is me, this is me breaking up with you and tellin' you that you can go–"

MESSAGE LIMIT EXCEEDED.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

 

 

 

 

"Hi, you've reached Mainstream Literature.  Sorry, I've been debating how to turn this lemon merengue pie into an analogy for my marriage.  Please leave your message after the tone."

BEEP.

 

 

 

 

 

"-AND YOUR FUCKING DOG, TOO.  FUCKIN' ACTING LIKE IT'S ALL FUCKIN' DEEP AND MEANINGFUL BECAUSE IT FUCKIN' SHIT ON THE LAWN.  OH YEAH, I'M SAYIN' SHIT NOW.  SHIT, FUCK, PUKE, FART, PISS.  YEAH, IT'S FUCKIN' REAL NOW.  IT'S ALL THE WAY FUCKIN' REAL.  LEPRECHAUNS ARE REAL.  DRAGONS ARE REAL.  I'M FUCKIN' REAL, BITCH.  I'M ALL UP IN YOUR FUCKIN' GRILL WITH MY SPELLS AND MYSTERIES AND SHIT.  I'M MOTHERFUCKIN' OSIRIS SLAPPIN' MY SEVERED PHALLUS AROUND AND THE PEOPLE ARE FUCKIN' LOVING IT.  LOVING IT.

"FREESTYLE.  FUCKIN' DROP A BEAT, FRODO.

"Pfft-pfft-pfft!  Chikka-chikka-yea!

"LISTS!  I'M ON 'EM.

"SERIES!  I GOT 'EM.

"RATINGS!  I'M ALL ABOUT 'EM.

"IT'S GENRE, Y'ALL.  FRESH FROM THE PAGES.

"FUCKIN' OFFA THE BOOKSHELVES, MAKIN' KING'S WAGES.

"I AIN'T GOT NO FAERIES, I'M A BIG BOY NOW.

"INCEST AND SHIT AND EATIN' ROAST COW.

"GOT MY BOOKS REAL NICE, MY COVERS ALL SLICK.

"LOOK AT ME, LIT, YOU CAN SU–"

MESSAGE LIMIT EXCEEDED.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

 

 

 

 

"Hi, you've reached Mainstream Literature.  I'm currently occupied staring wistfully out at the horizon in a period of deep self-loathing.  If you'd like to be involved in this, please get back to me in two years after my research is done."

BEEP.

 

 

 

 

 

"Baby.

"Baby.

"What are we doing here.  What..what are we doing.  Why are we doing this again.  We don't need this, right?  You don't need to tell your parents.  You don't need to tell your friends.  We don't need this, right?  Yeah, right.  Right.  We can just let this slide.  Yeah, you can just go ahead and delete this and…yeah.  Yeah.

"What?  You want an apology?  Baby, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.  I know I…I know I fucked up.  I fucked up real bad.  I'm so…it's just that you make me so…so…Oh.  Oh God.  Oh, fuck.  I didn't want this to happen.  Shit, look at me, crying and shit.  I know you don't like that.  I'm sorry, baby.  I'm sorry I called you boring.  I'm sorry I called your friends boring.  I'm sorry I thought the dog was just shitting on the lawn.  Baby, I'm sorry.  You don't need to tell your parents.  Nah, baby.  We can still work this out.  We can…we can…

"Oh…oh god.  Oh no.  I'm gonna fuckin' puke.  Look, I'll bring chocolates back tomorrow.  I'll see you at work, baby.  If the security guys don't let me in again, then I'll just leave them at the desk and then come back and wait for your ca–HURK!  BLARF!  Shit.  Shit.  Oh, god, baby.  Sorry.  Sorry!

"Call me!"

END OF MESSAGES.