A letter concerning your novel.

Dear Joan,

I have examined your book and,

if you will please excuse me,

have found it disconcerting.

The title words pour down the cover

across a field of sickly green.

Play

   It

     As It

       Lays.

The words appear ill themselves.

Beyond the block of vomitous green a woman,

a faceless woman in fishnet stockings and with just a hint,

a teeny curve,

of quite the luscious bottom,

is bent in half.

Backwards.

Painfully in black and white backed by cream,

the color mental institutions use in lieu of white.

And then there are the words:

"A novel by"

after which is a photo of,

I assume,

your face.

Your oversized, dark glasses survey John Leonard's praise.

He claims you surpass all since West.

He calls your work terrifying.

Joan, why do you hide your eyes?

Do you think the fear you've planted in John Leonard will show there?

Do your words terrify you too?

Or do you hide because it is a sham? The fear you write is guesswork.

If I must read your novel I would like to know;

Why?

Sincerely,

Alan