To Steal a Weeping Widow

Author's Note/Reflection

It was never about the theft.

It was never about the Widow.

Maybe it was never about Geraldine, either.

Maybe it was only ever about Eleanor.

Eleanor, who told you this story from her point of view. Eleanor, whose version of events might be drastically different than if I'd told this story from Simon's point of view, or August's, or Geraldine's, or an unbiased narrator's. Eleanor, who promised she recognized her privilege yet consistently proved she didn't. Eleanor, who crumbled with every chapter and flooded every word with her heartache. Eleanor, who was inherently doubtful, apologetic, and pulsing with a longing she couldn't always identify. Eleanor, who maybe wanted to be punished, wanted to be seen as guilty, wanted to lose everything.

Maybe it was never about the romance either, or the ending.

I won't confirm what the ending was. I won't tell you how to interpret it, or who was at the gallery at the end. I won't.

Of course, clues for everything are woven throughout. Eleanor told her story from beginning to end more than once.

Sometimes it's like she's looking over my shoulder, a mirrored image of someone a few shades of soul off from me; are we still related then?

Truly, this book has been a strange journey from the very beginning. Before I had any ideas of plot, or characters, or anything of the sort, I had one simple thought for this book—I wanted to write a book that is entirely different the second time it is read. Perhaps even every time. I wanted to write a book that, in fact, probably has to be read a second time in order to be fully understood. Of course, since this is a first draft (it will be entering the editing process as soon as possible), I'm sure there's lots I need to clarify, remove, or change to make more sense. If you do choose to reread it, I encourage you to comment your thoughts and point out what you think doesn't work. Maybe those comments can be differentiated from first time reader's comments by something specific, like an emoji or "RR" for re-read, so I know.

Someone asked me once if I listen to music while I write, and if so, what I listen to; if it's what inspires me. Sure. I do. And it inspires me. But I also love music that reminds me of what I already feel, what I run from, and what I throw myself into when I'm writing. For example, I love Taylor Swift. I heard "my tears ricochet" and thought of my characters. The song was perfect; it caused an ache in all the right places. Was it Eleanor's words to Geraldine? Geraldine's to Eleanor? A duet? Yes to all of the above. Yes, I listened to music while I wrote. I made a playlist and mouthed the lyrics while ripping words from myself. I cupped written wounds when I heard "Dear Reader", "The Great War", "Look What You Made Me Do", and "Anti-Hero". Yes, I heard Eleanor in all of those (and more). I wrapped bandages and rummaged elbow-deep in prose while I heard Hozier sing "Unknown/Nth", Bastille sing "Haunt" and "Poet", David Kushner sing "Daylight", Josh Tarp and the Still sing "Vigilante". I heard Lana Del Rey sing "Blue Velvet" and "Old Money", Cavetown sing "Green", Gang of Youths sing "Achilles Come Down"...

I searched for you everywhere I went, did you look for me, too?

I want to talk about the reveal. I want to point out that Eleanor never once said "I didn't do it" in the early chapters; it wasn't said until the end. In fact, she repeatedly mourned how guilty she was throughout the book. She apologized constantly. She chose her words so very carefully from the very beginning. Yet, so many readers assumed she was innocent. Why?

Because you trusted Eleanor, the narrator, when you were given no real reason to? Why do we believe the first version of a story we hear?

Because of the lawyer's arguments? Wouldn't they say whatever they have to? Why would you trust them?