Dear-est Rosalind:
My dearest one, my urchin one, my sweet n’salty sea-shell,
my conch – how are you?
I know it’s only been a couple of days since my last letter,
pray forgive me, but I just felt compelled
to write again. I realise you haven’t
replied to the first, but still, perhaps you too have been busy?
Busy, busy, busy: that’s me just now. Trying to get this goddamn manuscript
finished for publication (yes, I have three publishers interested in the draft,
all of whom say they ‘are looking at it’, and ‘will get back to me with a yes,
or no’). I trust you are as excited as I
am at the thought of having a professional author in our future family.
Families? Babies? Rest
assured I adore babies. Some men of my
age don’t, and they sure as hell can’t handle the things on a hangover. But, me, oh no! I love babies as much as any woman, as much
as I do my two dogs (you’ve met them, the Bullmastiffs), Fritz and Bruno. Somedays I even I wish I were still one myself
(a baby), then you could cradle me in your arms, and I could suck on your
breasts (is that too explicit?).
Well, I suppose you’ve been wondering what my novel is
about. Let’s just say (and I realise I
may sound a little presumptuous) it could
take certain parts of the World of Literature by proverbial storm (I don’t know
if a proverbial storm necessarily includes plagues of locusts?). Anyhow, a critic might say of it: ‘Murikami –
eat your heart out!’ (have you read him? Dreadfully over-liked, over-popular
and over-rated!), (If you haven’t read him, don’t start now!).
So, to the plot: a man and woman meet in inauspicious
surroundings (a grimy city bar), and they end up sharing pizza. Their fingers touch as they tear and share
the slices, and talk about pizza toppings, Italian renaissance painting, that
sort of thing. Then, a crazed ex-mafia
goon bursts into the place and sprays bullets into the open kitchen, the man is
hit in the shoulder and is taken away in an ambulance … but the thought of this
their first meeting (perhaps unsurprisingly in view of the mass murder) never
leaves either of them.
Still, to cut a not very long synopsis short, gradually over
the years, and the endless trial proceedings, the two are bought back together,
and love blossoms from the darkest, most rootless place.
Like it? (perhaps don’t answer just yet!).
Rosalind: can I write
you more often? I find on paper words
come so much more easily than when I’m trying to speak them.
Bundles of love!
Yours,
…roaming, and waiting.
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