What lies below is a dead Preface from the novel I'm now writing. It's here because I couldn't bear to let it dissolve completely into that vast black hole where erased words, chapters, even whole novels spend eternity pacing from one immeasurable end to another. That is a sorry fate.
There is, apparently, a widespread antipathy for the old-fashioned Preface, at least among literary agents and editors. That got me thinking about the Preface that began my novel-in-progress, and when I brought it to my Writing Group, they agreed it was an unnecessary contrivance. I felt indebted to this Preface, as it introduced me to to my novel. It gave me a jumping off point, a way to attack, a glimpse into my protagonist. It's easy to let go of some material while writing, but not this one. At least not now. That's why I'm putting it here.
A PREFACE NO MORE
Life is annoyingly full of lessons. They come at you willy-nilly, either like rocks from a slingshot or as delicate as wispy parachutes from a dandelion head on a soft summer day. It’s much easier to ignore the latter than the former, and it’s only in retrospect that one is able to see that the Universe keeps upping the ante as time goes by. If the dandelion wisp didn’t rouse you from your stupidity, something stronger will get flung at you the next time. Like an acorn from a tall oak, or a wave in the ocean that makes you swallow a gallon of salt water before you right yourself and catch your breath. And, if you continue to be obstinate, year after year, the lesson will eventually hurtle towards you like an eighteen-wheeler. It’ll run you over, and if you’re lucky, you’ll have just enough fortitude to pick up the pieces, finally do your homework, and learn a belated thing or two while you’re gluing yourself back together.
In my experience, rearranging those pieces back together is what life is really about. We’re all patchwork, when it comes right down to it, bits of good and not so good, history and future and, of course, the present, though many of us don’t seem to spend much time there. We’re always blaming someone (even ourselves) for the past, always have our eye on some brightly lit future we often don’t do enough to make real. Some even blame past lives, which I think causes more confusion than elucidation. Some people say we choose our lives, when we’re spirits somewhere awaiting a new home. This may be true, but it does make me wonder what people had done in a past life to choose a life of suffering in another incarnation. But that’s another subject entirely, and I’ve veered off course already, in telling what amounts to a tale about my life, which has been no more exceptional than anyone else’s. It just happens to be my story, and though I’ve conjured up lots of other lives in other books, this happened to me, was flung at me from the strong arm of the Universe, through time and space. It all started with an ending, as most things of any importance seem to do.
There is, apparently, a widespread antipathy for the old-fashioned Preface, at least among literary agents and editors. That got me thinking about the Preface that began my novel-in-progress, and when I brought it to my Writing Group, they agreed it was an unnecessary contrivance. I felt indebted to this Preface, as it introduced me to to my novel. It gave me a jumping off point, a way to attack, a glimpse into my protagonist. It's easy to let go of some material while writing, but not this one. At least not now. That's why I'm putting it here.
A PREFACE NO MORE
Life is annoyingly full of lessons. They come at you willy-nilly, either like rocks from a slingshot or as delicate as wispy parachutes from a dandelion head on a soft summer day. It’s much easier to ignore the latter than the former, and it’s only in retrospect that one is able to see that the Universe keeps upping the ante as time goes by. If the dandelion wisp didn’t rouse you from your stupidity, something stronger will get flung at you the next time. Like an acorn from a tall oak, or a wave in the ocean that makes you swallow a gallon of salt water before you right yourself and catch your breath. And, if you continue to be obstinate, year after year, the lesson will eventually hurtle towards you like an eighteen-wheeler. It’ll run you over, and if you’re lucky, you’ll have just enough fortitude to pick up the pieces, finally do your homework, and learn a belated thing or two while you’re gluing yourself back together.
In my experience, rearranging those pieces back together is what life is really about. We’re all patchwork, when it comes right down to it, bits of good and not so good, history and future and, of course, the present, though many of us don’t seem to spend much time there. We’re always blaming someone (even ourselves) for the past, always have our eye on some brightly lit future we often don’t do enough to make real. Some even blame past lives, which I think causes more confusion than elucidation. Some people say we choose our lives, when we’re spirits somewhere awaiting a new home. This may be true, but it does make me wonder what people had done in a past life to choose a life of suffering in another incarnation. But that’s another subject entirely, and I’ve veered off course already, in telling what amounts to a tale about my life, which has been no more exceptional than anyone else’s. It just happens to be my story, and though I’ve conjured up lots of other lives in other books, this happened to me, was flung at me from the strong arm of the Universe, through time and space. It all started with an ending, as most things of any importance seem to do.
