don’t read this.

don’t you dare fucking read this, you bitch, until you’ve read a story for the eyes of God, my book review of the four loves. wouldn’t dissecting a frog be more fun if you saved the killing and cutting of the thing for yourself? or maybe you appreciate the frog for what it is, in which case, i would dissuade you from reading any further, as i intend to kill and cut and showcase the frog for all it’s worth, blood-guts-n-all.

are you ready?

did you read it?

okay cool, now let’s talk about —

thanks for taking the time to read that short story. i hope you like the front-facing narrative, because i don’t, not really. it was fun to write but not fun to read. it was my practice in writing nested narratives; it’s about changing and adapting, it’s about internal monologs, it’s about a book review, it’s about a person hiking through a forest. the first three were the most important to me, they were the stories i really wanted to write about. but that fourth one, that’s the important one for filtering purposes. it’s a book review, but not really, right? it’s about walking in a forest, because that’s the first level you engage with as a reader. but what’s going to motivate you to read further, into the rest of it, what’s going to convince you that there’s actually more going on than just a stroll through a forest? i don’t know. i should have an answer for you, but i don’t, somehow you just kept reading, and if you are by this point, you’ve either figured it out, or you’re waiting for me to tell you. either way, i’ve got your interest, and my hunch is you’re one in a hundred.

i had an interesting relationship with the four loves, and i regret to write that i never finished it. lewis starts the book with the premise “God is love,” as written by st. john in the bible and i have to check my biases without altering them because i’m not a religious woman, i’m just who i am, and when he presents his obviously faulty conclusion that therefore, any love lesser than that divine-love God would present to humanity, that kind of uncompromising and unconditional love and forgiveness, is indeed lesser, that we ought to strive to provide one another a divine-love, Godly and uncompromising and unconditional, lest we devolve our own loves into corruption, expecting and needing and wanting and hurting and i abandoned his credibility in a moment and read on, waiting for redemption, and so it was given.

it’s a bait and switch. lewis riled me with the idea, yeah, that love you have for your mother, that love you have for your spouse, that love you have for your friends, it’s corrupted. but he pulls back and he says, i fucking got you idiot, that’s actually what i believed before writing this book. and now? that our natural-loves still are corruptible, but not necessarily, that we ought to be vigilant and reflect and watch our loves expand and contract and change and stay the same. and what he said next resonated with me so strongly i felt the need to write a short story as an apology to him, the long-dead author, because i'm sorry i didn’t give you the credit you deserved. maybe i’m just waiting for somebody to give me the same.

the setup —

you see, i said there were four narratives, but there’s actually a fifth, and it’s a narrative that’s hidden from you just as plainly as it’s hidden from me. it’s something i would call a cosmic joke. you may or not be aware, but i’ve filtered you into a handful of boxes, and i’m writing based on my perception of the potential boxes you and other readers could be in if they made it to this point. for one box, you read the original story (at least you should have, because i asked you very politely to read it at the start of this post). for another box, you’re interested in dissections, you want me to give you my answer because you have your own map and you want to write down some of mine (something about frogs). and some other boxes, you understood the first, second, third, and/or fourth narratives (and least likely of all, you inferred the most common fifth narrative, although you almost definitely did not live out the fifth narrative, or you wouldn’t be on this page at all). would you believe that i’m writing something meaningful for every reader, no matter how many boxes you’re filtered in?

if you’re a writer yourself, this is nothing transgressive, and you have likely performed something similar in your own writings. it’s about having a target demographic, having a specific kind of person you’re writing for. i’ve written for myself plenty of times, in my diaries and reflections and letters with myself as the only intended recipient, and it’s important that i write those for my eyes and my eyes only. other people can read them, i wouldn’t be upset by that, but when i’m writing a diary, it’s important that i’m the only target demographic; if i were writing with the intent to allow another’s personage, i may write details i don’t care about or omit embarrassing details that i do. no. in my diary, i am the author and i am the reader. but given all of the boxes i’ve filtered you into, who am i writing these narratives for?

the first three narratives, about changing and adapting, about internal monologs, about a book review: that’s for the readers who trust me and put in the work; that’s for you! thank you. the fourth narrative, about a hiking trip: that’s for me and my enjoyment; it’s not fun and it’s not engaging, but also, that’s the point. but the fifth narrative, about a secret for the eyes of God? you can guess who that’s for.

and the punchline.

i wish i was privy to your journey experiencing the story but that’s a privilege granted only to God, and i hope i have him entertained with that as my fifth narrative; the actual reading journey of the reader. it’s my intention and estimation that the vast majority of readers skimmed through the story and abandoned it when it got confusing. reasonable! after all, i’m asking the reader to perform a series of demanding literary tasks: 1. assume that i am a competent writer (i may not have earned this through my storytelling), 2. hold multiple narrative threads in their hands (i have merely suggested how to tie them together), 3. sit with their ambiguity and and confusion (i admit it is an uncomfortable feeling), and 4. make interpretations before the answer becomes clear. this is the point. it’s the whole point. i wonder if God enjoyed watching those who fell through the bridge and gave up?