To The Characters in the Novel I Will Never Write

I'm sorry I don't love you more.  

Mae, this would have been your story. Born in Sweetwater, Texas, because not enough stories begin in Sweetwater, you are, like all strong women, misunderstood throughout your childhood. Your parents love you, but they don't know you. Your mom, Marie, is half Chinese, half Mexican and your father, Louis, is all Jewish. This explains everything and nothing. You're an only child and your parents are older than your friends’ parents. They have secrets they won't tell you.

The readers will meet you when you are 32 and running for state senator. You've never had a serious relationship, and so they don't have much dirt on you. Your campaign manager, Angel, says this makes you more suspicious, that in order to be legit, to be real, you have to have some blemish. Something for the voters to forgive.

You will nod your head. You can't make up romances you've never had, but you know if the voters need something to forgive, you can offer plenty. Angel looks you in the eyes and says, “Before we continue with this campaign, is there anything I need to know about?”

You do not hesitate.

Maybe this is why I don't write fiction. It's certainly why I rarely read it. I'm sure I'm writing someone’s life, someone who really exists, someone with a birth certificate and who, as I imagine her, is actually now just deciding what color to paint her bathroom. Even if I set this 347 years in the future, even if I imagine it in Mars, I believe that I'm not really making anything up. Make believe is truth and truth is make believe.

You will look at Angel across the conference table. The setting sun is gold and it feels like the whole state of Texas is listening. You remember your father in the kitchen just before Alzheimer's set in. He loved salami on rye, though the rye bread in Sweetwater was a bad distant cousin to real rye.

You know if you pause too long or too short Angel will not believe what you are about to say.

Mae, the responsibility is too much for me. I love you like I love my sisters, like I love all my nieces and all their babies and all their future babies. I love you as I fall asleep. I love you as open a red Spanish wine. I wish you could join me.

I don't write novels because I would have to write the end. But stories never end. If I start the novel, I'm committed for the rest of my life to telling your story.

“Angel,” you say, placing your hands on the table in front of you, “there is a great deal you need to know about me. I don't know where to begin.”