August 31st, 1994

It isn't easy being a misunderstood genius, but somehow I get by. Most people simply can't grasp the pressures I face or how much it takes out of you to pour the absolute entirety of your soul into your work. Especially when it feels like you're shouting into the void. In spite of all the odds, I persevere. Forget cleanliness, I say obscurity is next to godliness.

But, then again, perhaps you've heard of me. I'm Shannon Meadows and I write great works of literature. Well, one great work so far. I was the wunderkind who published my first novel at the ripe old age of twenty-three, and while it's true the critics didn't grasp the brilliance of Ennui in the Everglades, and readers may have not exactly bought it in droves, I maintain that in time it will be rightfully appraised as the modern classic that it is. On the surface it may appear to be a 900 page tale about a depressed manatee, but discerning readers will uncover a rich allegory about the Balkan Wars, doomed love, and the place of humankind in the universe.

It's heady stuff, if I do say so myself, but it's nothing compared to what I have planned next. Tentatively entitled Melt, my next magnum opus is going to be about an ice cream cone that has been dropped on a hot sidewalk in Odessa, Texas in the middle of July. I still have to write it, of course, but I'm anticipating it will be roughly 1500 pages after I trim some of the fat.

Through circumstances I'd rather not relay here, I found myself stranded in Western Texas for three days last month. It was a ghastly experience, and one I vehemently do not wish to repeat anytime soon, but it did provide me with inspiration for my next literary endeavor.

Through my father's realtor I've managed to rent a five bedroom house in a small town in upstate New York. Some might say five bedrooms is a lot for one person, but I find it helpful to the process to have plenty of space to stretch out in.

The town I chose shall remain anonymous, lest some overzealous fans are tempted to track me down and disturb me while I'm in the throes of creation. I require absolute focus to produce my art, which is why it was deeply frustrating when I sat down to write earlier this evening with my trusty pipe and a glass of red wine only to be interrupted by an ungodly racket coming from outside the house. I could hear numerous voices laughing and hollering and there was awful music thumping so loudly that the walls of my house were vibrating and I was nearly shaken out of my very seat.

I stormed out of the house in a huff and glared at the house next door, which was clear the source of the ruckus. The late summer evening was still warm, but I would never be caught outside without my black sweater, coat, and scarf. I've also taken to wearing a fedora lately. I feel that I write better when I have it on. I could feel myself starting to sweat and it was giving me flashbacks to the bus station outside of Midland. I nearly felt a panic attack coming on, but the throbbing in my head pulsed in time with the obnoxiously loud music and refocused my ire on the matter at hand. This was supposed to be a quiet neighborhood, which was specifically why I chose it. I decided then and there that I would march up to the door and give the ruffian who lived there a piece of my mind.

I had to maneuver my way past a shiny red sports car of some sort. Don't ask me what the model of it was, I have no idea. I find fancy automobiles frivolous and would much prefer to take a quiet bike ride or to travel by train.

The front door was made out of solid wood and had a large glass window above it and frosted glass strips on either side. There was a golden knocker in the shape of a lion's head centered on the door, which screamed poor taste to me. I grabbed it and rapped three times. There was no answer, so I rapped again. Then I spotted the doorbell, which I rang repeatedly until I finally saw the blurry shape of someone approaching the door through the windows beside the door.

I was greeted by what I initially took to be a clown. It was a man who was clearly wearing makeup, including eyeshadow and lipstick. He had long feathered blond hair that was blown out so it was extra poofy. He wore a skintight zebra-striped spandex suit, cut in such a way that his hairy bare chest was on full display. Each of his heavily tattooed arms was wrapped around a scantily clad buxom blonde and he had an open can of Coor's in each hand.

"What's up, dude?"

I was taken aback for a moment. "Is this some sort of costume party?"

The man threw his head back and laughed. "You're a trip, bro. Wait, did you think this was a costume party? Is that why you're dressed like that? Hold on, let me guess. Are you supposed to be a nerd?"

"A nerd?" I sputtered. "The audacity! I'll have you know this is how the most fashion conscious academics at Oxford are dressing."

"Chill out, man. I'm just playing with you. Why don't you come in and have a brewski? We were just about to do a few lines and get in the hot tub if you want to join us."

"I would prefer not to catch chlamydia, thank you. I was actually wondering if you could keep the music down. I'm in the process of producing a literary masterpiece next door and I am in dire need of some peace and quiet."

"Sorry, no can do, man. The rest of the band is on the way over. We're going to party for a few hours and then we need to rehearse. I'll tell you what, I'll hook you up with a signed photo."

He dug around in his pants and emerged with a black and white photo which he scrawled his name on in black marker and thrust at me.

"Mööseknuckle?" I asked.

"Yeah, man. You're honored to be in the presence of Antony LeBon Lacey, lead singer of the greatest band of all time. You are a fan, right?"

"I can't say I've ever heard of you."

"We had five number one hits in 1987, alone. Man, the 80's were where it was at, don't you think? The 90's have been terrible so far. But I'm not worried. This grunge shit isn't going to last. Hair metal will return to its rightful place at the top of the charts. Just you wait."

"Indeed. I'm afraid I prefer classical music myself. If I'm feeling edgy I may indulge in a spot of jazz. They're clearly superior forms of music."

"You're funny, man. What's that accent I hear? Are you from Cleveland?"

"I do not believe that I speak with an accent as I am a product of only the finest private education and I am certain it is merely the clear and proper enunciation of my dialect that you detect. Moreover, I have never set foot in Cleveland in my life."

"Okay, bro. You remind me of this dude I used to buy drugs from in Cleveland, that's all. Well, if you're not going to come in and party I'm going to need you to jet. Got lots of drinking and drugging to do."

"So to be clear you're telling me you will not turn down your music?"

"I will not."

"We shall see what the authorities have to say about this," I fumed as I stormed down the driveway and headed back to my domicile.

I was so upset by this interruption to my writing process that I downed the entire bottle of wine and then opened another and drained it of its contents as well. Drowsiness began to overcome me despite the noise that continued unabated from next door and I retired to the Master Bedroom.

I knew I was sleepy, but I didn't anticipate not awakening for two months.