The Monks

Letter to the Bored

13 October 2001

Dear Gentle(wo)men of the Bored,

Campus is deserted and lovely. I am sitting on a bench by the library. In order to work on Spineless Books. A row of geese just flew low overhead, honking, going north. They formed only half of a V, though, really just a italicized I, with one lone goose off to the side, struggling for symmetry. It was incredible. I am alone here, typing at one edge of the cobblestone terrace, a soft glow of dusk settling. A whir of cicadas paints the stillness.

As of the writing of this sentence, a publisher was the last thing to be. The promised ebook paradigm is failing to revolutionize publishing, the Frankfurt Book Festival was underattended and had intimidating amounts of security, and the entire economy seems to be in a tailspin, the world with it. All of this is discouraging to the underpublished experimental writer, with regards to the prospects of their unsolicited manuscripts emerging from the slush pile, because, in addition to the threat of bad poetry, there is now bioterrorism.

There has never been a better time to lose faith in the literature industry, give up waiting to be discovered, discover yourself, and, instead of getting published, publish. Check out this week's Council of Literary Magazines and Presses newswire.

This is the first Letter to the Bored from your literature facilitator. The purpose of these letters is to orient you to my intentions, to solicit your input, and to serve as a historical record of the Revolution.

In closing, I would just like to remind you of the monks.

My friend Sam Patterson, when I confessed to him the difficulty I was facing in starting a press with no money, no time, and no experience, wrote me the following:

"William you must remember the monks. They also were called to make books. They did not have computers, they made books out of the thin holy air and their faith in books, sure they said it was God, but think about it. Keep doing the good work."

Here is my poem about the monks:

"...a dream is like the waves a fly makes struggling on the surface of the water.

When the fly stops... so does the dream."

-Slaughter City, Naomi Wallace