Dear Mr. King,
Hello and I expect this letter finds you in good cheer.
My name is Artanis F. (Frank) Santiago, and I am third cousin (twice removed) of
Carlos Detweiller. Does that name ring a bell? It should, because Carlos Detweiller is/was
the famous (infamous?) author of True Tales of Demon Infestations, a work of rare genius,
in my humble opinion, which you (shall we say) usurped, purloined, stole (putting it mildly)
and used in a story titled “The Plant.” You did this, I might add, with premeditation and for
material gain, much to the detriment and emotional despair which such an action caused my
cousin, the above mentioned Carlos Detweiller, to be the victim of.
Have I got your attention now? Good, because I'm not through with you yet. Not by my
aunt Cordelia's cat's whiskers, I'm not.
You might think—of course, you are free (for now) to think this—that you, being an Author of
Horror (but so is/was Carlos, for that matter) have the right to usurp, purloin, steal your own
creation's work, in this case True Tales of Demon Infestations. You could invoke “poetic license,” or
some other such poppycock. Prosaic, yes, and a handy excuse. But poetic license be damned.
It is my firm belief that even in fiction, the character—who in this case is also an Author of Horror
(though less well known, I'll grant)---has RIGHTS. RIGHTS, mind you.
Remember those, Mr. King?
So in effect what you have done is to commit a crime against your own creation. (That came
a bit from left field, I know, but bear with me.) You might guess—you can still guess, can't you?--
that my logic is a tad fuzzy around the gills, but this is comprehensible when you consider I'm
writing this longhand inside Zenith House in Riddley the janitor's closet, mind you, where
YOU-KNOW-WHO resides.)
I really got your attention now, huh? Good. Onward.
Now, in the name of my cousin twice removed, Carlos Detweiller, celebrated author of
True Tales of Demon Infestations, master of the Ouija and spiritual traveler, I/we want you to
continue (operative word) The Work, also known as “The Plant,” in which said Carlos Detweiller
so prominently appears. (This must sound, I'm sure, perversely like/akin to the situation Paul Sheldon
encounters in Misery. Déjà vu all over again? Perhaps, Mr. King, but there's more.)
I/we want you to, shall we say, resurrect Carlos Detweiller, liberate him from the limbo of
neglect you have so heartlessly subjected him to during all these years. And in the process also
resurrect John, Roger, Riddley, General Hecksler (who's a real loon, by the way), Ruth and all the other
muckers who populate so charmingly the netherworld known as “The Plant.”
In other words, I/we want you to let Zenith ivy live, grow, progress . . . spread.
It goes without saying (though I/we are saying it) that you are free (somewhat) to say No,
free (somewhat) to pro-cras-ti-nate. But I/we wouldn't advice it. Too much is at stake. (“Stake,”
get it?) So, as Annie Wilkes might so endearingly put it, “Oh, fiddle-de-foof, Stephen, go on and
finish the darn thing. What can it hurt? Of your own free will. Please?”
I/we would like to conclude with these words to the wise, the signature creation of Carlos
Detweiller, author extraordinaire, a fitting epitaph for my/our glorious name:
PRAISE ABALLAH! COME DEMETER! COME GREEN!
Have a nice one. Your (new) friend,
Artanis F. (Frank) Santiago
Somewhere Deep South
Hello and I expect this letter finds you in good cheer.
My name is Artanis F. (Frank) Santiago, and I am third cousin (twice removed) of
Carlos Detweiller. Does that name ring a bell? It should, because Carlos Detweiller is/was
the famous (infamous?) author of True Tales of Demon Infestations, a work of rare genius,
in my humble opinion, which you (shall we say) usurped, purloined, stole (putting it mildly)
and used in a story titled “The Plant.” You did this, I might add, with premeditation and for
material gain, much to the detriment and emotional despair which such an action caused my
cousin, the above mentioned Carlos Detweiller, to be the victim of.
Have I got your attention now? Good, because I'm not through with you yet. Not by my
aunt Cordelia's cat's whiskers, I'm not.
You might think—of course, you are free (for now) to think this—that you, being an Author of
Horror (but so is/was Carlos, for that matter) have the right to usurp, purloin, steal your own
creation's work, in this case True Tales of Demon Infestations. You could invoke “poetic license,” or
some other such poppycock. Prosaic, yes, and a handy excuse. But poetic license be damned.
It is my firm belief that even in fiction, the character—who in this case is also an Author of Horror
(though less well known, I'll grant)---has RIGHTS. RIGHTS, mind you.
Remember those, Mr. King?
So in effect what you have done is to commit a crime against your own creation. (That came
a bit from left field, I know, but bear with me.) You might guess—you can still guess, can't you?--
that my logic is a tad fuzzy around the gills, but this is comprehensible when you consider I'm
writing this longhand inside Zenith House in Riddley the janitor's closet, mind you, where
YOU-KNOW-WHO resides.)
I really got your attention now, huh? Good. Onward.
Now, in the name of my cousin twice removed, Carlos Detweiller, celebrated author of
True Tales of Demon Infestations, master of the Ouija and spiritual traveler, I/we want you to
continue (operative word) The Work, also known as “The Plant,” in which said Carlos Detweiller
so prominently appears. (This must sound, I'm sure, perversely like/akin to the situation Paul Sheldon
encounters in Misery. Déjà vu all over again? Perhaps, Mr. King, but there's more.)
I/we want you to, shall we say, resurrect Carlos Detweiller, liberate him from the limbo of
neglect you have so heartlessly subjected him to during all these years. And in the process also
resurrect John, Roger, Riddley, General Hecksler (who's a real loon, by the way), Ruth and all the other
muckers who populate so charmingly the netherworld known as “The Plant.”
In other words, I/we want you to let Zenith ivy live, grow, progress . . . spread.
It goes without saying (though I/we are saying it) that you are free (somewhat) to say No,
free (somewhat) to pro-cras-ti-nate. But I/we wouldn't advice it. Too much is at stake. (“Stake,”
get it?) So, as Annie Wilkes might so endearingly put it, “Oh, fiddle-de-foof, Stephen, go on and
finish the darn thing. What can it hurt? Of your own free will. Please?”
I/we would like to conclude with these words to the wise, the signature creation of Carlos
Detweiller, author extraordinaire, a fitting epitaph for my/our glorious name:
PRAISE ABALLAH! COME DEMETER! COME GREEN!
Have a nice one. Your (new) friend,
Artanis F. (Frank) Santiago
Somewhere Deep South
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