I can’t help having suspicions. I try to draw the line at being cynical, but in assembling this collection of short fiction that I have written and had published over the years, I can’t help but see a theme that runs through my work.
Apparently, I’m suspicious.
I’m certain that I first learned that things aren’t always as they appear when I learned that my parents were just people instead of omnipotent gods. Psychologists say this is a milestone moment in the lives of most children. Perhaps I have never recovered. Certainly I continue to be suspicious about everything. Or maybe suspicious is too harsh a word. Perhaps I’m merely inquisitive. Introspective. Skeptical.
Nope, I’m afraid that suspicious is the proper word.
I’m suspicious about pretty much everything, but mostly I have suspicions about other peoples’ motives. Why are they nice to each other? Why are they nice to me? Why do they do the things they do, at the time and place that they do them? I want to know.
I want to know about The Great Unknown and why some people say they know more about it than I do. How did they get a special pass? I want to know about death, and why some people say they know more about it than I do. Ditto sex, a very interesting, sometimes funny, always intriguing topic. I want to know why some people have friends and some don’t. I want to know why some families are close and others aren’t. I want to know about love. And just exactly what is up with our government? Who understands that?
In this collection, I have selected stories from the past twenty years of my writing career. In it, you’ll read about my suspicions, as they are cloaked in fiction, and perhaps you’ll recognize some of them as kin to some of your own. If you have any of the answers to my questions—most not yet asked—please don’t tell me. I’ve become fond of my suspicions, and they fuel me.