Dinner is Finally Served

A few months ago I started a literary-quasi-artistic endeavour. Then I stopped. I mentioned that due to unforeseen circumstances, the morsels of creative sustenance had been devoured, and my plate of inspiration was clear. I had hoped that in a few weeks time I would be able to finish. Weeks turned into months, and my desire to finish waned. However, I can now say that the piece is finished in its rough form (which turns out to be its intended form). It's not publishable to say the least, but it was a fun exercise. No doubt my mother (God bless her), will read the final product and assume that everything in it is absolute truth, as if I was writing biographically. I think it's a parental tendency. In response I give you these words:

There never was a good biography of a good novelist. There couldn't be. He is too many people if he's any good. -F.Scott Fitzgerald

While the story of the character writing this letter is far from over, I am finished with him. Perhaps he'll return in twenty years, or perhaps this exercise has bludgeoned him like Smerdyakov handled Fyodor*. Regardless, here is the final page I will post here on the site. If you want to read the full piece, email ithrewabrickthroughawindow[at]gmail[dot]com for a copy.

*Confused? Go out and purchase a copy of Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. Please, please, PLEASE read it!