THE OUTLINE OF THE story told here was suggested to me by a recent, highly publicized murder. I used, in a novelistic way, those facts made known to me through television and newspaper reports. But when those facts contradicted my imaginative and fictional necessities, I chose to pursue my own imagination.
The story I really wanted to tell is not about a specific set of characters and circumstances. I wanted in some way to explore questions of fidelity, love, sexual obsession, ambition, violence, and how our thoughts about these things are created and manipulated by television, movies, popular music and magazines. The question that interested me most was: Where do our motivations come from for self-fulfillment, for sexual attraction, for compassion and, finally, for love? I imagine all writers share these kinds of concerns.
So this is not a book about a specific murder case, or any individuals connected with such a case. It would be unfair to align the characters in this novel with those beings who gave me some inspiration. A frequently quoted line from Flaubert comes to mind: “Madame Bovary, c’est moi.” Madame Bovary, that’s me. To some terrible extent, all the characters in this and every other novel I’m ever likely to write represent elements of my own self. Names, places, characteristics, personal histories, ultimate guilt, ultimate responsibility, are all my own invention.