Dear Me

Dear Me,

         Let me begin by saying I'm a little bitter. Every year, I make goals so you can feel better about yourself, and every year you blow them off. You never even look at the list, let alone reach the point where you need to exert yourself long enough to pick up a pen and check something off. I think you honestly try to do everything in your power to disregard--and even oppose--everything that I say, so let me be clear with you about 2007: Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

         Like growing pumpkins. What the HELL was that all about? This is Alaska, for Chrissakes! It's 20 below outside. Instead of reading poetry, like we agreed on, you flounced off and pampered your plants for hours on end. How many pumpkins did you end up with this summer? Let me count... Oh, that's right. ZERO. Because it's TOO COLD.

         So when you asked me to write you another set of goals so you could blow them off again, I thought, to hell with it. I'll tell you what NOT to do, then I know you'll get off your fat ass and check off every thing off the list, just to spite me.

         Here's what I DON'T want you to do this year:

         Please, for no reason whatsoever be stupid enough to submit short stories to speculative fiction magazines in the year 2007. We both know they're going to turn you down, and you'll give yourself papercuts getting piles of submissions ready that editors at Asimov's are only going to use as firestarter on their camping trips. Think of the stamps. You live in Alaska, so each submission costs almost a buck-fifty to send out, and that's not including the SASE you've gotta throw in. You'll go broke before you see a single word of yours in print, and then where will you get the money to buy all those fancy heirloom seeds that don't grow in states spelled with an A-L-A-S-K-A? Besides, I know you hate writing out those cover letters because you can't think that hard, and I know you always mess up the addresses because you're too clumsy to get it right. So please. Don't do it. You're wasting your time. (Pumpkins??? Jesus.)

         Because I KNOW you're gonna submit to those magazines just because you're a vindictive little brat, please, save yourself the paper and don't send over four a month. Any more and the editors might actually call you up to tell you to stop inundating them with crap, and I don't want to see you blubbering in the corner with a crumpled handful of tear-stained rejection slips, wondering why you can't get published. It's better this way. At least your pumpkins don't reject you. (Wait, what pumpkins?)

         For both of our sanities, don't even attempt to finish that sci-fi series you're working on. You need to just put it all aside and go find a job at McDonalds, because it's never gonna pay off. Don't you think eight hours a day is a bit much? I mean, you've got no social life, you drink tea for two meals out of the day, and you're pasty-white from tanning in front of your computer. Sorry, honey. Doesn't work that way. Stick with your pumpkins...I'm sure those grow-lights could give you a better tan, and you spend enough damn time with them anyway. Next thing I know, you're gonna start drinking plant food and plant tomatoes in the crevices of your ears. Hah! Maybe then you'd actually get a tomato or two, since you can't very well leave your head out on the porch to get frostbitten into black mush because you were too lazy to bring it inside overnight.

         Since you're probably gonna be stubborn and finish those next two books anyway, let me just tell you that you don't even need to bother editing them--nobody's gonna read them but you, sweetheart. Hell, why not just stretch out in that ridiculous greenhouse you built on the desk and commune with your creations? It would be more constructive, and you'd get a tan, too.

         Since it's obvious from last year that you can't handle reading a book a week, I'm not even going to try to give you such a painfully overwhelming goal. In fact, I want you to march right into the living-room, turn on the TV, and veg out for the next twelve hours, just because thinking about books will make your head hurt and you'll need some time to make the pain go away. Then, once you're done rotting that increasingly feeble brain of yours, go play with your plants. Reading is for authors who aren't living in a fairy world full of magical pumpkins with pretty rainbow seeds that get them published.

         Oh, and we already tried the poetry thing. How many times now? Three years in a row, I think it's been. Well, screw that. You don't need to read poetry. Your stuff is absolutely brilliant as it is. You can read it to your dog and she doesn't even growl at you. She might bear her fangs a little, but hey, as long as she doesn't bite off those useless fingers of yours, you can still hack out your masterpieces and nobody will know. I won't say nobody would care, since they probably WOULD care if you lost your fingers, but only to breathe a sigh of relief because you're no longer going to be emailing them a spectacular new pile of shit for them to quietly vomit over in the safety of their homes. God knows the dog's put up with enough as it is...it's time for her to make a stand.

         ...Though losing your fingers might be a problem for your pumpkins. How are you gonna keep polinating those little flowers that just wilt off and rot anyway because it's TOO COLD TO GROW PUMPKINS IN ALASKA if you've got no fingers? It would be a tragedy. I think I might actually cry. Everyone deserves a sex life, and I sure as hell don't see any bees around here at twenty below zero.

         Remember that new language you wanted to learn? Which one was it?

         Nevermind. You don't remember because you never got past the first page and you kept falling asleep to the tapes. Anyway, I wanted to tell you it's okay. You don't need to learn another language. You're doing quite well as an uneducated, unworldly, beef-headed boor. Why try to learn a language? I mean, you haven't even mastered English, you underbred redneck hick. Besides, it's hard, and I know how much you hate to strain yourself. After all, why put two flats of plants in the ground when it's so much easier to plant one flat and procrastinate until the other flat dies of sunstroke?

         Oh, and this is really important. I want you to make sure you email your agent twice a day to keep him updated on your current endeavors. I'm sure he'll be especially interested in how well those pumpkin starters are doing in your bathroom. Be sure to tell him the wattage of those fantastic new plant bulbs of yours, too. If he doesn't return your emails immediately, call him. Once a week should do it. I know you really want to know what's going on with Congie. The best thing to do is to go straight to the source, and who better to tell you you're a pain in the ass than one of the best fiction agents in New York?

         Now go back to chanting Tibetan meditation songs over those new seeds of yours. Maybe one of them will actually grow this time.

Signed,
Bitterly,
Your Self

-Sara King
http://www.kingfiction.com