In late 2019, the Author released his debut novel with a small, independent press. The book received three positive reviews in online literary journals and sold forty-six copies. The novel told the story of a sexually abusive relationship from the perspective of the abuser. The following is an excerpt (lightly edited for clarity) of the first (and only known) interview with the author on his work.
— I didn’t think we would be talking about this. I’m sorry. It’s a fictional story, account. Just an artistic, artistic license kind of cautionary tale based not on any sort of
— I did not write about my job, my career, this place or anything related to
— It was an expression. I was expressing myself, just artistically. A way to clean out some old cobwebs, come to some
— Yes, yes, I understand our insurance is excellent. I appreciate that. My three children are on this insurance. It was not in place of therapy or even meant to be therapeutic. You see, art serves
— I have had some experiences, in my life, sure.
— I have abused and been abused. I have hurt people and they have hurt me, if that’s what you are asking. Of course. Like anyone else.
— No, it’s a work of fiction. There’s nothing
— I wasn’t thinking of customers. Clients, not any of that. It was, was for me, you know, mostly, just to, I had an urge to create something, this childish idea that I could add my name to the ledger and
— It sold forty-six copies. I bought another thirteen to sign and send to my friends. I kept two for myself. In two years, the section published online has been clicked on one hundred and twenty-eight times. It takes about twelve minutes to read, and the average user stays on the page for one minute and sixteen seconds.
— When I was fourteen years old, my neighbor, [redacted], started sticking his finger up my asshole as a joke before eventually
— Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” played constantly, it felt like my ears were going to bleed, the riffs muffled my screams and even after I told him I liked it and kept my mouth shut, even begged for it once, he never turned down the record. I’d wake up, for twenty years, couldn’t breathe. I cut. I used that great insurance every week to see and talk to someone. I forgave him. I didn’t forgive myself. Until I killed it. I named it. I inhabited him. Wrote him. Wrote him seeing me. Wrote him as he saw me. As he must have seen me. Printed. Hot paper. Bound with glue. I was finally able to
— No. No, of course. I understand. The customers. The clients. My fob, yes, of course, you’ll need my fob. My children. What am I supposed
Derek Maine is a writer living.
image: M. M. Kaufman