Ted,

I’m so happy for you that you’re getting your first book published! {Just when I thought my life couldn’t get more depressing, this happens. It’s a sign of the degradation of our society, and if publishers and consumers bought anything of any merit, rather than nasty, moronic crime melodramas, then it would be my novels in print, and your ode to idiocy would lie unread in the only storage space you have, under the bed in your squalid little studio grief-hole, while your ugly, frail body, racked with alcohol-sweats and tears, would lie pathetically on the yellowed sheets above}

Seriously, congratulations, and I mean that with the utmost sincerity. {Lie. I’m applauding your good fortune, not your talents as a human being. You are not good enough to deserve success in any respect}

I hope some day to emulate this achievement and see my books in widespread print. {I am better than you and if you can do it, I can do it a thousand times over. Well done on this cheap trick. You’ve somehow successfully hypnotised some clown into buying your dull idea for a book – by being so pitiable, I should think. I write about reality, philosophy, the mind, the human condition. Your commercially-sycophantic story makes me gag even before its release} That’s a pretty tall order at present though, what with the wife, kids and the job. {I lead a rich and full life, unlike you. If I had the luxury of dedicating all my time to writing then I would be the finest writer to ever have lived. But hell, I don’t know Ted, don’t you think having a family is a priority? I guess you can cuddle your one, dusty, published book when you’re 65 (but with the body of a 90 year-old from all the drinking), drooling all over its unread pages as you wait for lonely death in some appalling state-run hospice} I’ll get to it as soon as I can, here’s hoping eh?

So are you going to be able to quit your work {temp jobs as a receptionist, begging your parents for handouts} and focus on the writing? {tapping drivel into your laptop in-between constant drinking and pretentious social media posts about “important” writers and art installations}

Anyway, best of luck with the whole process and I can’t wait to read it! {I’ll buy your fucking book when it’s ready, and I’ll rip it to shreds, and all my writing buddies will mock your ludicrous effort, and they’ll hate you and your stupid conceited thoughts and ideas as much as I do}

Take care, {die fucker}

SP
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Simon Pinkerton is a London-based writer of humorous and dark short stories and poems. He has a blog at http://www.simonpinkerton.tumblr.com and a Twitter thing also under his name, and feels very alone so please look him up and make nice comments, maybe even “follow” him.