When the suggestion first hit me at 11:30 at night, I tried to ignore it. This was a usual interruption to  my sleep; a sudden jolt of insecurity beckoning me to change course or quit entirely. My impulses are whispered in my ear late at night and then carried out the following day, accordingly. Destroy this thing.  I had been more patient recently so the voice was soft, calm, matronly.  Write the foreword, beget the clarity. God, I love writing. Any chance to write something  essayed, poetic, I jump to, but this is different. My strength is in the pithy.  A novel like this would take stamina.  I didn’t want to waste any more time on this project and I didn’t want to toss and turn checking lists, counting errands, running them. Immediately, I spit the thought out. I simply can’t write another thing that isn’t in linear order. Have I told you my joke about linear order?
I don’t know what soothes me more: the completion of anything or the incipient stage that I maunder through, skipping gaily towards a promise, a new me, a reinvention like it’s the beginning of June on the last day of school and I’m counting how I will enter high school before I’ve even left the bus. It’s the work I don’t want to do. My work. My personal work. I found endings horrific. Devastating. In fact, I pummel towards them at the start to get it over with. Grief. Yes, of course, I am writing a story of grief but so much more than that. I am writing a reflection of my inability to complete which renders me in the intermediary stage of this process: refusing to write the ending. It is not just superstition, but pain. The surprise.  I cannot let them go.
I’ve always admired prose. I’ve admired narrators that can chop things up or vacillate between two different times like Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves. The weaving of multiple stories on different timelines so it is as if you are understanding the story as the narrator tells it to herself. I find that more authentic the way people really do tell stories, the way people do to relate to one another. The unfolding. The blossom. The waft of maturation in your lines, “did you know dear friend, that I am prone to destroying things to eliminate one part?’ we say calmly over tea. The lightbulb. The final stake in the heart. Omniscience.
It is the writing process. No writer walks into a book and thinks, yes, like this, it will be like this. It has taken me years to execute this, not solely because I am devastated by endings but because I am writing something that forces me to multiply them. Something that forces me to look ahead to tell a finished story. To leave only some room but to walk in knowing what really happens to her. Inspired from an early age by the Choose Your Own Adventure novels, specifically Goosebumps version, this book is you watching her mess up. This book is not happy, although I try to dot it with scenes of elation as she gets what she wants, but there is always a price to pay for attaining. This is a book to be read carefully and I have done my best to write it plainly, as confusing as my own premise was. That we are always uncovering ourselves as we go, remembering the past as it was, the present as we feel to anticipate an ending we deserve. Why did I resist writing this foreword for so long? I have written several drafts already.
The work: the enormity of what I want to portray, a reflection of my own deep synthesis and patient optimism and fear. The fear of being seen. The fear of being finished.  The fear of being misunderstood. The ending you seek is in the tale itself.

“And I came full at them,
hook in mouth
like hungry lure.”

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