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Updated: Oct 18, 2018

I wrote this book, Letters for Great Uncle Grandmother, it is somewhere between a novel and a novella so I referred to it as such in the description (e.g. described it as both in the same two paragraphs - naturally people thought this was a mistake).

"This stream of consciousness epistolary novella follows the adventures of an unnamed protagonist who writes letters to the eponymous grandmother. The story is dense and highly suggestive, left largely for interpretation and consistently beautiful. Follow the writer and his Great Uncle Grandmother through their dealings with dust and systematics, hydrogen and oxygen and petulance and persuasion."

Or so the description goes anyway...

It is dedicated to Joe Nason who was one of few regular readers of my blog where I first started posting letters from the book.

Below I'll post one of the letters to give you an idea of the style contained within.

Letter for Woodgrain, First Movement

Great Uncle Grandmother,

You do not cry anymore, I have noticed it. Your old letters were often dripping when I pulled them from their bottles, now they smell of musk and systematics. You have methodically removed all your thoughts and memories and placed them into boxes clearly labelled and in chronological order; starting from the time you first put tinsel on the mantel and ending with the time you last opened one of the boxes. You haven't forgotten what it was to be nature, have you? I do wish that you could find a leaf buried in those chords and tubes. Perhaps you should get some sun and fresh air or at least a sip of water.

I am embarrassed; I proposed to a friend of mine and it was a woeful display, all templated cardboard and yellow vaults of archaic emotions that were nowhere near nascent. My friend turned their head and opened themselves wide open for me to crawl inside, I did and they followed at 52 frames per second (projected at 24). While inside we danced and ate up the unprocessed excrement before buckling into bronze piles of sweat and wetness. Suddenly (!), we were outside and on opposite sides of the room, I was naked and cold, they were neither of these things. There were buds on the vines. Enthralled, I reached out to them and they pricked my fingers. A long stream of blood almost reached the floor before separating from my tips, it pooled and flowed into a spinning display of all the things you hate: this is the exact moment when I realised that you impact every moment of my life.

A bitten off chunk of apple was in your envelope, have you been eating right? Have you been sleeping? Mowing the lawn? Escaping to the tricks of faith? Do you remember the time we were sand? It was frightful and freeing, we were the most gay of grains on the shore. Do you remember when I invented the war? Not my proudest moment but the one I will be remembered for, don't hurt me with your slices of nuggets of facts. Do you remember the time in the upside-down drinking glass? No? Perhaps you should rifle through your boxes and get back to me.

Grenada and Soap,


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