Down South Perspective

While writing and even while editing, it is not my habit to actively think of the reader.  Can’t You Get Along With Anyone? was the exception.

This was especially the case during the edit. I thought of the reader, of you, a lot, and I worried. In fact, I worried so much that during my preliminary edit, when I came to the end of a particular chapter (about midway through), I added something. The following words came quickly, without conscious thought as to purpose, and survived the various edits untouched:

I write these italicized words from the future, after it all went down, after all the events and all my weaknesses played out, plus my one strength, and after the writing of all of it. I add these words just before this book goes to press and I’ll be unable to say anything more to you; these are the last words I’ll write.

Norman Mailer calls writing “the spooky art” and that is very apt, for many reasons, but for me it has to do with you, the personal you. You. You are a very spooky entity to me.

You are spooky because you mean everything to me, yet I know nothing about you except that you are right now reading these words.* Do you understand the bond I feel with you, the depth of it? I am giving you a lot but you are no less returning that: I speak of your time and of your attention, the two most valuable things you have to give. Thank you for that, for having come this far with me.  

Now: Instinct tells me that if it hasn’t happened before it has certainly happened now, with this incident of the phone cord: You consider me a fool.

You must understand something: I don’t fear that you think me a fool, nor do I fear that you don’t like me.

I only fear that you don’t care. Don’t care What Happens Next. Don’t care what I’ve written on the pages you have not yet read.

To put it another way: I have chronic tinnitus, ringing in the ear. Sometimes the ringing is so loud – like a siren going by – that I can’t believe everyone can’t hear it. I fear that this book is like that.

That’s my fear right now as I write these last words.

Footnote:
* What time of day is it now as you read? Are you on your couch, stretched out in the early morning, maybe on a Sunday, your mate cooking breakfast, Eggs Benedict, say; your favorite Sunday breakfast (mine too). Will you talk about me and my book as you eat together? Or will you be alone with your breakfast, reading this lonely book?

So that was my fear and it was a serious fear; the sort of fear that keeps you up nights. As it’s turning out, my fear was unfounded.

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