I am writing to inform you of a development in my work. The ‘novel in progress’ currently known as ‘Foucault’s Daughter’ (sections posted on my blog as Scribbling On Foucault’s Walls) is to be merged with the writings I have called ‘Letters To An Alien’.
I am well aware that this information is of little or no interest to anyone at all. The subjects of my novel are either dead (though sometimes I find it impossible to believe that Foucault is, in fact dead), or some kind of concoction of my imagination. But dead people have a way of staying alive, especially when people write about them. Look at all that trouble over the biographies of Sylvia Plath. It took decades of conflict, and the death of Ted Hughes, to eventually put that fire out.
I know Foucault’s Daughter herself is some version of myself. But even I am struggling to get too excited about this development. It is probably yet another diversionary tactic by my subconscious, to stop me finishing the novel, and putting these ghosts to rest.
However, you may or may not be aware, and may or may not care, that these Letters To An Alien, have been in some sense or other, addressed to you. I cannot be certain if the ‘you’ they address corresponds to ‘you’ as you live and breathe. But there is a chance that some of them may do, at some points. Therefore I am writing to inform you of this merger, between ‘life’ and ‘fiction’, as it does pertain to your life, your fictions, to a degree I cannot measure.
If you have any objections to my including these letters to you in my novel, please state them at the usual place. I cannot guarantee I will take notice. I am a writer. I cannot guarantee anything.
‘Romance is analogue, and so last century’. I think you may have coined that phrase yourself. Letters are also so last century. As is the concept of The Author and the authentic originator of ideas. But I don’t need to tell you that do I? I think your ideas have been stolen more than most.
So here I am, giving you fair warning of my theft. Asking for permission to commit my crime. All writers are thieves, liars and killers. But some of us still have manners.
I thank you in advance for your generosity, or lack of it. Whichever is the least indifferent. This may of course all come to nothing, rest assured.
Yours, in gratitude,
Quiet Riot Girl