An Open Letter to Contemporary Writers

Dear books I've been reading lately,

I would not like to read anything else that sounds like this:

Horton poured over the folder of papers he'd received from the Mr. Gundelbaum's sister. He'd looked at each photograph at least fifty times each. The smile was the same. The sweater she was wearing. The street she was standing on. Still, he knew he was missing something. What was it? How could he not see?

He ate a melted cheese sandwich, with mulit-grain bread, lightly toasted, with a side of sauteed kale and garlic. His coffee, Peet's, of course, was prepared in a paper cup. No cream, two sugars. 

Or this

Dread King Horgaard sat in the great hall, his crown weighing heavily upon his brow. With a single stroke of his hand, he had ordered the deaths of Haarsgaard, Marta Jarl-Bottom, and his cousin TreeFall the Felt. Soon, the Bastards of Belt Pike Creek would be at his gate. Damn them and their Askinash God.

To commemorate the executions, he ate boiled quail and gooseberries, with spiced ground potatoes, a stew of crab and lentils. He washed it down with a delicious honey mead.

Or this

The summer was not summer at all, but spring in reverse. Granny is dead, sure, but that doesn't mean she can't speak to me. There she is now, coming up the path, ghostly, sure, but real as real gets anymore. I mean, if I can't even call my own father my real father, who am I, at the ripe age of seven, to conclude that anything is true or false? To consider reality, one must have a foundation of reality, after all.

I made a green salad, just for Granny, with fresh herbs from the garden I've been keeping in her honor. Turnips, parsley (from the store, yes), carrots, all with a light vinaigrette. The taste of Granny and Summer in those turnips! Paired with a chardonnay, cold.

Enough already.

Love,
Matt