NO RESERVATIONS / BACK FROM SOMEWHERE

(September 1989 to July of 2007, then back and forth to the years between and 2007)

A chapter in which, frankly, I don’t know the best way to somewhat briefly yet dramatically convey and/or describe the passing of twenty years, of the invisible years, and after considerable consideration I land upon using deftly placed flashbacks (to be presented as unrealistic interview dialogue) despite knowing said flashbacks are frowned upon (with, admittedly, good reason most of the time) by the academia writing syndicate as well as by those who can afford to pay for the privilege of being taught prescriptive writing advice, but fuck it, a memoir Novel! is all flashback anyway, so we’ll all just have to deal, and there’s a messed-up and scary piece of furniture that should’ve been a clue.

This! This is what I meant when I encouraged your “new height attitude.” You still come off a little bit whiny and you’re totally rationalizing, but I applaud the ’tude here.

I started writing this memoir novel November 19, 2007. The book’s first two pages were written in one sitting. Go ahead and reread them. I’ll wait. (Waiting.) Aren’t they jaunty? The prose brims with verve, swerve, playfulness, and boils with foolish hope if not for my improved social and financial lot in life, then for a cracking, rollicking book. But, let’s be honest, there’s also a baseless, brazen bravado, as though I’d assumed writing this would not be difficult, and there’s an obviously manic desperation to make an instant impression on you, the reader. I have resisted the urge to rewrite those pages, not because they’re perfect but because they are not perfect, and they represent a truth you might be able to apply to your own life: what has since taken shape, what has since found its own form, is not what I imagined it would be at the beginning.

It has taken me almost five years of writing and rewriting (and I could’ve spent fifty more) to reach this point in time within the memoir novel. For Art Barbara, your humble author, these pages are a functioning time machine. Within time-travel narratives, the oft-written-about unintended consequences of jaunting to the past is how the present and future are changed for everyone. Not to worry, reader, you are safe, or as safe as you can be reading a book. This memoir’s novel's butterfly effect will be limited to me, however. My past, present, and future are recast with each new paragraph and each edit.

Um, hello? I’m right here.