Dear Walter “Space Cowboy” Girkins,
We have received your request for early termination of your artist’s residency on Mars; your request has been denied.
Look, the sun’s about to set and our solar array’s gonna power down, so I’ll be quick—your draft is a mess. Do you read any of the news we’ve sent? Things are bleak down here: everyone read Allen Ginsberg and learned all the wrong lessons; fiction’s all gone semi-automatic; Barnes & Noble merged with Sweetgreen and now they’re both getting gutted by private equity.
The world’s in a bad place. People need something real. So, when I got this week’s status update on your ‘daring’ modern epic, Dandelion Rhapsody, and I saw it’s up to sixty-thousand words now, you’ll forgive me if I’m unimpressed. I know you’re already imagining the New-new York Times review: “A piece that resists convention, categorization, or easy reading — yet, the prose sings. The work of a true literary genius.” But Walter, that review’s not gonna come from this piece. Nobody wants to read this many words about the year you were sad in Brooklyn.
The thing is — there might be a story in this piece, but you’re too afraid to find it. I’m beginning to think you’ve never been interested in finding it, really. I think you just wanted the cryosleep. I think you wanted a red rusty planet on which to wallow, a new setting for your sorrow to metastasize, like it’s the studio apartment in the city that your parents ‘helped you out’ with.
Walt, you know me. We’ve been talking for years now. Can I ask something, sincerely?
Have you ever had a revelation? You’ve lived a whole life—you’re the first man on Mars, for Christ’s sake—have you ever had a single ‘a-ha’ moment? Have you ever held someone like you were scared they’d leave, like you hoped it’d make them stay? You call the trees in Bushwick “wooden arms praying to the sky,” — but have you ever actually prayed? We all know what you’ve lost by now, but have you ever found something?
Look, Walt, I know this sounds harsh, but I’m rooting for you. I’m the only left here who thinks you’ve got a shot. So this week, I’ve got homework for you. Set aside the draft, and complete the following exercises:
- Tell a joke that makes you laugh, and keep it to yourself.
- Write a list of everyone you’ve ever loved and the color of their eyes. Then, crumple it and eat it whole.
- Sew two sockpuppets and build a stage. Make them talk until they find a perfect string of words (like monkeys in the infinite typewriter), until they stumble on a magic phrase with the power to make any old sock feel like it, too, has an animating hand inside of it.
God, look at those stacked metaphors — I feel like I’m turning into you.
Best,
Mission Control