Postface
POSTFACE
Confusion, from Your Author
WE WRITERS are not a sociable people. Actually, that's kind of why we invented writing to begin with, all those millennia ago. It's a form of communication that is unique in its complete lack of human contact. We don't have to look at the people we're chatting with, we don't have to listen to them—hell, we don't even have to be in the same era as them, not mention the same room. We write at the time and place of our choosing, and you, the reader, are allowed to participate sometime much later, once we've had ample time to evacuate. That's always been the deal, and we're very happy with it just the way it is.
What is this? One page? ONE page?! THAT's my novel? That's what I've been striving to make for my whole life? Years I've been practicing for this! Decades! I stocked up my office with enough canned food to last me a year, just so I could write my novel uniterrupted for as long as it took! I wrote my obituary, just in case I didn't make it! I stole my mother's bedpan! All for one measly page? That's not a book! That's a pamphlet! Oooh...I think I'm going to be sick.
...what are you smirking at? Yes, I know what you are doing. I can feel it from here! Are you enjoying this? Are you reveling in my failure? Basking in it? Just rubbing it all over your splotchy body like warm garlic butter? Mmm! How's it taste? Delicious, I bet. MMMM! Mmm! Smack, smack, smack! Gluttonous draggletail.
Sincerely, Your Author,