True Whatever

I have decided I am writing a nonfiction book about a crime that happened in the place I have lived for over 30 years, and how it affected so much.  I am not going to worry about the genre too much.  After having read a lot about true crime tonight, I would like to distinguish my book from voyeurism; this is a book about Asha, but it is also about myself, and about people like McClish who present themselves one way and wear a mask, and what happens when the mask drops.  I will never, ever forget a dream that still chills me to the bone, of a person I loved with all my heart, dreaming of him one night in a train station, everything sepia like an old photograph, his open arms, gesturing for me to come to him, running to him, and his body dissolving like a coat to reveal a monster, one from a previous dream.  Was my mind warning me of something to come, or was this just a fear of what might be, an unreasonable one?  Anything is possible.

I think this is just going to be a book--after all, the last sequence is narrated by someone in the afterlife--and so be it.  I just need to write the very best book I can, with the very best words I can.  It is also a story of how I have tried to know this woman, know her life, and express what has been lost.