Books by Sloy
I’m breaking all the rules. My book is an autobiography of a 39 year old woman in fictional technique. It hurts me to write about her like this. This is a novel autobiography.
A topical (what does that mean anyway?) look at the world of matter and spirit from a woman’s eyes.
My book is written as it happens. In the way it has to be written. Its gravity is its theme—a woman’s eternal quest for her soulmate. The void’s quest to be reunited with ourselves. The great deliverance of love. Beads are strung on the thread as they come to me. I am not writing the book—it is working through me. I just listen and try to get it all down. I’m only an ordinary woman. Would I dare plan such an undertaking? It comes from somewhere else.
So I have an aesthetic. Further a sense of language most often attributed to the poet, because I am a poet. The texture of my book. Cobbled. With words. Another dimension. For the ear and the eye. If I had to say what it most resembled I would say a poem. The Odyssey.
You’ll be surprised by my honesty. I’m surprised myself. Nothing must be excluded by an editorial hand from the holy source of ourselves. Even what hurts. This quest is common to us all. Let the people be in my book. It’s their story too. The names have remained the same to protect the innocent.
Chapters are short. Fun to read. Everything just happens. Like life. Nothing is explained. But themes are returning and returning. Repeated readings forever revealing. Even I don’t know everything that’s there. Some things I may never know.
Sex, drugs, rock n roll, film and from a woman, a teacher, a mother of two. And true.
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