It’s the future.

What I mean is, there’s an almost-twelve-hundred-page manuscript weighing down the corner of my rolltop desk, and it’s been there over a month. I pulled it out of my carry-on baggage when I returned home from the cruise, and there it’s been ever since, eyeing me. Eventually, it’ll be published. That’s sort of why I wrote the thing, but not really. If you remember (as you should).

In the future (i.e., your present), it’s already been published. You probably wouldn’t be reading this from wherever you are, whenever you are, if that weren’t the case.

Since it is — since you are — this future has indeed materialized/spiritualized. And since that’s the case, there’s nothing to add here. You’ve read the damn book. You understand.

If somehow you’re reading this, and my novel hasn’t been published yet,

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