[alloallo3]

Synopsis: This is the preface to a novel. Although it's just a preface, I'm rather pleased with it. It's pure fiction, too.

Preface

This is the story of the end of my life.

It isn’t the story I intended to tell. When I set out to write, I believed that after 16 years as a reporter and another 24 as a lobbyist I would for once be free. For the first time in 40 years there is no one to tell me what to write, and there is no need to do it according to another’s prescription. Within the bosom of this new freedom I intended to loose a torrent of Is and Mes and Wes, stating emphatically what I wanted to say, and recounting exactly what WE had been about. But circumstances change, and I have no choice but to write this story with my usual complement of personal pronouns: they, them, those guys, you all.

I am in Ireland for the purpose of writing my story, and toward that end I find myself sitting at my Underwood, blank sheets of paper stacked next to me.

For 16 years as a journalist, I lied. Each time I put a blank piece of paper in my typewriter, I told a story -- my story -- and each time I said it was the plain truth. I related what I saw and heard, and said it was all there was to be seen and heard.

For another 24 years I wrote laws, descriptions of laws, and explanations of laws. I drafted statutes on command, and left my imprint on regulations that now govern the actions of thousands of men, and the fortunes of millions. And I lied at each moment.

When it becomes necessary to vote on a new constitutional amendment, the public is given two pieces of verbiage to consider: the amendment, and an explanation of the amendment. It’s extremely rare for anyone to ask why two items are necessary -- why it’s necessary to explain a new law, or an amendment. Nevertheless, here is the answer: The two are required because the language of the law is purposefully obscure, stuffed to the degree possible with arcana to make it impossible to grasp. In the business, we say it takes a legal expert to interpret the law. That’s not exactly true. It takes an expert to write laws, to ensure their obscurity.

That’s what people paid me to do.

For 24 years I drafted laws that couldn’t be read and understood by anyone, but would nevertheless accomplish the purpose of my masters.

I have next to me as guide and inspiration “Lanterns on the Levee,” the splendid autobiography of William Alexander Percy. It contains this passage, a reminiscence of his days at Harvard Law School.

We were attempting to learn the law and we took it hard. The first year our confusion mounted to despair. One night Jakie Smith rushed into my room with the sudden illumination: “I know what it is! The law is common sense plus clear English!” I’ve never heard a better definition of what the law should be and isn’t.

Extraordinary. A life spent in lies -- profiting from them, employed by them, dedicated to them. And now is my chance to tell the truth, to tell my story, and I haven’t the wherewithal. I first have to write another story -- the one that fills my days and my energies, and the one I cannot, must not tell.

I’m told the exercise may prove satisfying, if not satisfactory. Emetic rather than cathartic.

That’ll do.

I find myself in Ireland at the urging of my sons, who have prodded me to this place with facile arguments. There are great writers in Ireland, they say. By sitting in pubs, listening to the conversations, I am to disentangle from my prose the learned lessons of 40 years, when my purpose was to obscure my presence in my writing. I am to learn to say “I,” and mean it. We think it’s a great idea, my sons said.

I know there are other reasons hidden beneath their speech. I’ve spent 40 years hiding behind words; I know what is found there.

Ireland is the land of my ancestors. From here in Skibbereen it is just two hours to the home my grandfather left when he departed for Boston. I’ve seen it twice in my life; both times I was impressed with its great size, and with its obvious derivation from wealth. We American Irishmen -- we’re all supposed to find in Ireland our little stone cottage. But my home is four stories tall, a brilliant red brick. It is literally a stone’s throw from the Grand Parade in Cork, and from Cork’s green river. Spending dollars here is a pleasure because they fetch such luxuries. But I, an American cousin, couldn’t begin to contemplate the purchase of my ancestral home.

Do I sound as if I’m bragging? Accruing pathetically the glories of the past, like Daughters of the Mayflower?

Remember this: I am an Irish immigrant, three generations removed, and I haven’t purchased with my time and life the means to return.

As for why I am in Ireland: I am to be ensouled by this journey, to find my place in the world of men and spirit. This was the particular hope of my Christian son, whose urgings were the most… shall I say “urgent”?

Not that he would have suggested such a thing to me, of course. He would not specify. No, he simply said I might find my “inspiration” here. I knew he meant dead people. Lots of them here, of course.

But there is one dead person I cannot escape, not back home in Louisiana, and not here. He has followed me across the ocean and settled with me here in Skibbereen. So I find myself with no choice. I will write down his story, then burn it.

This is the story of the end of my life.

Theodore L. Brandon
Skibbereen, Ireland
August 5, 1969

[Ambrose]

Hmm... dunno about this one allo. It's pretty cryptic and I don't really like how stilted and la-di-da everything sounds. That said, the writing is fine for the most part but I there were a couple things that stuck out like sore thumbs:

I first have to write another story -- the one that fills my days and my energies, and the one I cannot, must not tell.

I get that the narrator is hesitant to tell his story, so why not say "the one I am reluctant to tell" rather than "cannot, must not tell" which seems to be in glaring contradiction to the first part of the sentence.

I find myself in Ireland at the urging of my sons, who have prodded me to this place with facile arguments.

Facile arguments? This is pretty vague. Might want to explain this a little better.

Do I sound as if I’m bragging? Accruing pathetically the glories of the past, like Daughters of the Mayflower?

This sort of came out of left field. The only thing the narrator said that could be called bragging is that he owned a four story house in a nice location. Is this really necessary to say?


Remember this: I am an Irish immigrant, three generations removed, and I haven’t purchased with my time and life the means to return.

Wait, so he's an Irish immigrant who was living elsewhere but decided to move back to Ireland at the impulse of his sons. What do you mean by "I haven't purchased with my time and life the means to return"? Didn't he already go back?

This was the particular hope of my Christian son, whose urgings were the most… shall I say “urgent”?

The expression "shall I say" works better as a rhetorical so drop the ?

I’m told the exercise may prove satisfying, if not satisfactory. Emetic rather than cathartic.

The way this paragraph is structured, I want to tie emetic back to satisfying but I don't think vomiting is satisfying. Perhaps satisfying is not the word you're looking for.

I really get the feeling that you want this to be great but I gotta admit it sounds a little bombastic what with the "I told lies for twenty five years" that didn't have any sort of lead in but was just dropped on the reader. Don't be afraid to be informal. Liven it up a bit, add some more personal touches. I like the part about the narrator finally being to write the way he wants and how he is going to write a whole bunch of "Wes" and "Is", etc. I also really like the quote you threw in there. It helps you nail down what you were describing in the previous paragraph about the obscurity of the law.

Overall, here's what I think: I can tell you have the makings of a writer. You want the words to overflow with voice. But something I think its important not to force that voice, use language/structure purposely for the point of making it sound like you have a voice. I read sons and I really enjoyed it (I'm pretty sure this is the preface to it, right?). I would try to get back to that casual but smart way of writing that was in sons and let go of the rigid, in your face sentences.

[alloallo3]

Ambrose,
Thanks for the comments. They are very, very insightful, especially the bit about forcing the voice. You're exactly right.
Just to give you a little background: I did write this as a preface to Sons. I reluctantly pulled it after four previous readers all made comments similar to yours: they said it was unnecessary, confusing and perhaps even a bit annoying.
Okay, okay. I get it.
Thanks again.
Allo