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Dear Reader,

I am pleased to take up Raymond's electronic pen and welcome you to the eighth issue of whimperbang.

This issue is no different in concept or arrangement than those that have preceded, and we hope that it sustains and rejuvenates previous installments of wordy nourishment.

Yet, I unfold this issue before you with a more preoccupied intention. Specifically, I call out to the writers of fiction, of tales, and narratives, those storytellers who make intention their prose. I call out to you with worry.

D.H. Lawrence retrieved the intention of fiction from the early days of Defoe and Swift when he demanded that the novel matter; Hemingway retrieved the universal from E.M. Forster's 'provincial' when he made the marlin matter to the old man in the sea; J.M. Coetzee took Graham Greene's Vietnam and made you feel what a woman feels when she cannot prostitute herself to history but only to her country; and Leslie Marmon Silko made all of the above the history of New Mexico and Arizona.

I call out to you to make fiction matter again. The world is rotten, "surfeited" like the sickly Count of Twelfth Night. Look around you and write what you see and not the haze that membranes it from your eyes. The world has not changed or become a more tolerable place to inhabit; it only deludes you with its excess.

Mary Geday
Assistant Editor, whimperbang


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