Dear readers,
The journey to the publication of this book has been long, and I am grateful to have it out in the world. I am overwhelmed with a deluge of emotions, which I've managed to marshal into something articulate in my Author's Note (included and the end of the book and which you absolutely do not have to read):
I came to short fiction by chance. The goal was always to publish a novel, and I tried, naïve teenager that I was, pelting my first drafts at agents who very wisely did not bite (and in most cases did not deign to respond). In my hubris and certainty that I had written the best thing in the world, it did not occur to me that the work needed revision or more work, and I found the general lack of enthusiasm...confusing.
Writing a novel takes time, and I thought I would have a better chance with a short fiction collection.
Ah, the folly of youth.
A good piece of short fiction is one that haunts you long after you’ve read it, imprinting an image, or a feeling. A good piece of short fiction, as opposed to a novel, shines a hyper focus on a singular pivotal moment in the life of a character. I learned this the hard way, but I welcomed the challenge. I came to short fiction by chance, but I fell swiftly in love with it. Having decided on a short story
collection, I spent the summer of 2017 writing the first two stories (Maria’s Children and Isn’t Your Daughter Such a Doll) and as a test, I sent them out to magazines, and to my utter surprise, Maria’s Children got accepted for publication! To this day I cannot explain the joy I felt at that first accep-
tance. Someone read my work, loved it enough to offer me money for it! I was, perhaps, really good at this! Fresh off that high I sent out the next story to that same editor who promptly rejected it. I was not to be defeated. I had tasted victory, and like a parched marooner who’s glimpsed the suggestion of an oasis in the distance, I shouldered on. During lectures, while my long-suffering professors explained the pathophysiology of diseases, I would lose myself in the world of an abiku, or spend the day daydreaming of crafty wizards and forests that are not really forests; brainstorming plots and rushing home afterwards to scribble away.
And I fell in love with it.
I read voraciously. I imitated my favorite writers; studying the mechanics of a good story, pilfering liberally techniques I liked, until my voice emerged. The rejections were (and are still) endless, but here and there an acceptance broke the deluge, and that was enough to keep me writing the next story, and the next, and the next.
Barring some minor sentence-level edits, these stories are pretty much as they appeared in the initial magazine publications. They are, to me, Polaroids; snapshots of who I was craft-wise and as a person when I penned them. But most importantly, I love them. Not in the least bit because the money made from their sale helped put food on the table of this piss-poor med student. I am not the person/
writer I was when I wrote these stories, and in as much as I try to capture that person, I can’t. And that’s ok. There’s a certain peace in the knowledge that I am getting better (or I’ve been lied to and this is a particularly long and elaborate joke. If that’s the case, please carry on!)
I remain thoroughly befuddled and utterly humbled that some of these stories have gone on to be nominated for awards! All I’ve ever wanted was to tell stories, to tell them as I like to hear them, to guide a reader into a fantastic world through the sheer magic of my words. I hope to continue to do so as long as I have breath in me. If you’ve read on to the end you are a rockstar. And I want to thank you for coming on this dark and fantastical journey with me.
Tobi Ogundiran
Oxford, MS
January 2023