I've decided to write a book. A book of fiction that has just enough fact interspersed throughout to drive the people that know me crazy trying to figure out if I'm talking about them. I'm thinking about calling it It's Only a Flesh Wound, Lambchop, but I'll see how the story plays out before committing to anything.
Or I could just get right to the point and call it Roman à Clef, but I'm sure that's been done.
Anyway, even though Rappy thinks I should try to get it published by Random House (or someone) first, I'm going to just post chapters as I finish them. BUT - this is an original creative work covered by all the attendant copyrights, so no thieving it and passing it off as anything but mine. Because if you do that ... I KILL YOU!
So ... here we go:
There was Helen, who had no shame. There was Kate, who had no sense. And Lena, who had no conscience. Three monkeys, neither hearing, speaking, nor seeing any evil.
But mostly there was Ben, who had no nicknames. Ben, and me. I have no future.
But this is not my story. It's theirs. A story about friendship and almost-friendship and love and almost-love, of anger and sadness and regret tempered by joy and happiness and the kind of acceptance you only feel with someone who truly knows you. It's a story of beginnings and endings, and of all the misery in between.
I was wrong. It is my story.