The Masochist Foreword
01/27/2003 11:50 p.m.
I'm not sure I ever posted this and it's really all about Koye. Hm. If you'd like to know more about this allusive "Koye," read Angel Esclave's work. Believe me. And ask no questions. This is written as if the book is done; it's not as far as I know, but let's pretend, shall we?

***

I have never thought forewords to be a necessary entity. In all honesty, most people either hurriedly read through them or ignore them completely. I know this because I am one of those people. And, once again, honestly, this book does not need a foreword. My writing one in no way implies incompleteness on Koye’s part. And yet, here I am, writing a foreword. And I feel it’s necessary. The motivation to write this stems from a desire to praise a writer I have always admired and who probably influenced me more than any other. That person just happens to be a boy I played on the playground with when I was seven. I was the princess; the long light brown hair making me the most suitable actress, I presume. And Koye was my defender. And really, that’s how we’ve stayed. He had his stories even then, and I had mine; it was probably one of the things that brought us together. I have started many stories and have never finished any. That is what separates my writing from Koye’s. In the beginning Koye had the same problem. But when he began writing The Masochist I knew what it was. I told him as soon as I read the first chapter that I thought it was his best yet and I knew he’d finish it. Reading through various drafts of the first few chapters, I had an extremely vivid image of the characters and the story in general. It’s one of those novels you may hesitate to file under fiction because it’s obvious that somewhere at some point the story actually did take place.

So even when the story wasn’t nonfiction, it seemed as if it should be. What I mean by that is, intentionally or not, The Masochist began as fiction and became our lives. Perhaps Koye didn’t begin with us in mind, but he did at some point recognize the parallels. Throughout the years spent writing the book, Koye would turn to me at various times and say, “You are so Angel!” (These were usually moments I was angry with a boy, or a girl in my way of a boy.) And he ended up being both Lori and Kyle. As I understand it, the similarities to Kyle were indeed intentional. I begged and pleaded and eventually forced the Lori character on him. Not that he could really escape her anyway; they have so much in common. As much as Koye is the illogical, crazy one, he’s oftentimes the rational, calm one. And I’m not saying here that I’m just like Angel or Koye is just like Kyle. Writing always takes things further than their usual destinations. It wouldn’t be fun if it didn’t. But the likeness is undeniable.

With every step of the writing process, The Masochist became more and more similar to what was happening in our own lives. I had my Samantha. I’m fairly certain every girl does. Koye is one of the few male writers to recognize, understand and accurately portray female competition, a subject on which we’ve spent more than our fair share of time. Girls can band together or they can war, and usually they choose the second one. Taking all this into consideration, in dealing with this Samantha that my Raymond was hanging on to, I became desperate to the point of becoming Angel. I could write an essay just about Angel, but I’ll suffice to say that Angel is the girl all girls wish they could be. Even if they don’t desire to be obsessive compulsive, chain-smoking heartbreakers, they still want to be her. She says for us the things we can’t say for ourselves. For Koye and me, she was absolutely real. Angel became an idolized figure between us. We had various names for her, and, in Koye’s case, she often went unnamed. She showed up when we needed her. Usually. For Koye that was when he was irritated or disheartened. For me it was when I began to pity myself or when I was maudlin. She mostly served as a wake-up call to ourselves. And we became stronger because of her presence. In and of herself, Angel is weak, self-destructive and, not to be glib or flippant, a masochist. This book is about what happens when that woman isn’t tempered with Koye or me. And that is really the only difference between this book and our lives.

Koye’s approach to writing has always been one of necessity rather than one of pleasure. He doesn’t write for enjoyment. He writes because he has to in order to keep himself sane. This book was not a labor of love, but a labor of hope... the hope that one day we won’t have to “go through all this... to be safe up here with you.” The Masochist is a poignant declaration of sanity in an insane world, and it is almost impossible to file under fiction.

I am currently Nostalgic
I am listening to The Simpsons... the Mormon comment even :)