The truth is, I hate wasps. It’s not that they frighten me or that their stings hurt all that badly (look, they hurt, but there are far worse pains lurking out there in reality, so count your blessings it was a wasp sting and not cancer or rape (unless you’re allergic, in which case, I am so sorry and my God have mercy on your soul)), or even that they can be a real nuisance, all swarming about, interrupting a perfectly good cigarette break. No, what I hate about wasps is a little stranger, a little deeper, and requires you, dear reader, to take what I’m about to say at face value, as literal.

I hate what poor negotiators wasps make.

Look, hear me out on this. If they could just accept that my existence doesn’t necessarily threaten them but that I am much larger, much stronger, much smarter and shouldn’t necessarily be fucked with, we could get along great. They can set up shop on my patio, doing whatever it really is that wasps do (this isn’t an opponent I’ve felt the need to do any amount of opposition research on, okay?), so long as they shoo when I need them to. If we, the wasps and I, could agree on that, we’d be friendly neighbors. Instead, they have declared war on me, without even trying to figure out what it is I might want! Sure, it’s in their best survival instinct to treat me as hostile, but it’s just going to lead to their eradication. They’ve picked a fight when they should have tried to negotiate. You see, they’re poor negotiators!

I would say that nicely gets us to where we need to be, just enough whimsy to keep you hooked, just enough truth to seduce you, just enough weird to strap you in. I’m good at this, like really good at this, and I really need you to know that up front. Okay, so now that we can safely start where we need to start, let’s begin. Take a seat if you need to, grab a drink, something strong if you feel the need, because I don’t pause much.

Mark Twain was only half right. He claimed that his profession was that of a professional liar, implying that the very profession of writing is that of lying. And, yeah, duh. But, writers are more than just liars that get paid to lie, at least some of us. Here’s what I mean: Twain is talking about a liar who is also a gentleman, a scoundrel with a heart of gold, someone like Malcolm Reynolds, the version of Han solo that didn’t shoot first. Yeah, those kind of writers exist, the kinds that you know up front are still going to treat you honorably, still abide by rules you are familiar with. Here’s the thing though: not all of us have agreed to lie honestly. A professor once told me that I shouldn’t actively try to obfuscate the truth to subvert readers’ expectations, that essentially I should lie honestly.

He’s wrong, Twain, and, coincidentally, my old professor; there is no gentleman’s agreement between writer and reader about how we handle our lies and our truths. And if you thought there was, I highly suggest you sit the fuck down and seriously consider what this relationship actually entails, the one between you, dear reader, and me.

There is still an agreement between us, some things we need to settle before we begin whatever fictional narrative of mine you have selected, and that is what we’re here to do. To begin, I am in fact a scoundrel, but I have no honor. I am the true version of Han Solo, the one who shot first, the one that takes no prisoners and sustains their existence on a mental calculation that often reduces humanity to objects. I am a thief and a murderer, a villain capable of unthinkable tortures and sufferings; my hands are stained with blood.

Think of me as Jigsaw, an architect of horrific designs and contraptions, except that my materials are words, nouns and most dangerously verbs, sentences and paragraphs, my hideous puzzles stories and essays and novels, enigmas that I want to see you solve, desperately want to see you solve. But I never said I was going to hand you the answers, that the key to that bear trap on your head wasn’t hidden somewhere you didn’t really want to go, and I can’t have you thinking that I agreed to that. Now, I don’t consider your wasted life (if, in fact, your life has been wasted) consent to the tortures I have planned for you. No, you have to make the choice to step into the hells I’ve put together for you. Buying one of my books, reading one of my stories or essays, is your explicit permission to me to put you, dear reader, through whatever mental anguish or emotional battering I can come up with. I don’t hold punches, and my gloves are lined with barbed wire, but you will survive the endeavor, maybe look back and enjoy what I did to you, or shudder at what horrors you were forced to endure.

I believe in fairness, though, in negotiation. The wasps couldn’t agree to my terms, so it’s war, regardless if they understand just what they’re going up against. You, dear reader, now have an inkling to what I’m capable of, of just how far I’ll go to thrill you, to make you think, all in the hopes that you’ll solve my riddles, in this battlefield you have agreed to meet me on. If you need to pace or take time to think or take a slug of strong drink, I understand. What I’m asking of you is a lot, and I’m not giving much up in return. You’re agreeing to enter a world I created, with rules I designed holding its reality together, rules you may have never been introduced to, that you may have no concept of, and all I’m promising is that you won’t be disappointed by going on the journey. I might not end up holding up my end of the arrangement in your eyes, and that’s just something we both will have to live with.

If you can agree to those terms, then we can begin. If you would, dear reader, please just sign on the dotted line.