This is the original prologue to the first Jesse Donovan mystery, That She is Made of Truth. With all the changes in the book and the character over the past 3 years, it no longer fit. But like any good writer, I can’t bear to just throw words away. Like any good editor, I don’t see anyplace I’ll ever use them, either. So, how about here?
Somebody said that writers don’t write for readers, they write for themselves. Made no sense to me then, but here I am at the keyboard without a thought for you or anybody else who’s willing to waste the few small hours this tale will fail to fill.
We used to sit around the fire and share stories. If I had a fire and people to sit around it with me, I might have gone that route. Probably not. I need this to be tidy, and I don’t do so well off the cuff.
Besides, this way, I don’t have to see the look on your face when I tell you what a misguided pathetic sap I was.