Protagonist

Let me tell you a secret. A writer writes for one of three reasons: because he cannot live, because he would not live, or because sometimes writing is living. It might then be proposed that, in certain cases, the world might be a poorer place if life had provided more, or less, fully and the imagination was no longer obliged to compensate. A writer, therefore, could be pitied either way, for he writes because he does not know something or he writes because he does. Great depth of emotion can prompt a flurry of writing, but so can its absence. As for myself, I'm not sure which state is the more enviable.

Having considered the plight of the writer, I now ask you to turn your attention to the ain character. To a protagonist, it matters very little whether his tale remains confined to a notebook, viewed by few or published with great success. Any rewrites, as far as he is concerned, obliterate all but faint echoes of previous versions, echoes which are or at least should be ultimately erased or rendered invisible. Unlike the writer, the protagonist is, conventionally, guaranteed to live to some extent. And also unlike the writer (or a good one at least), he has only one tale to tell: he knows no variation and can handle no renovation, as long as he is bound by print. He knows only one tale, he lives only one tale, he tells only one tale: his own.

And so, dear Reader, like any good main character, I tell you the only story I know. Do not hold me responsible for its faults nor for its strengths. As dearly as I would love to hear your own story, I am bound by the very words you read to tell you mine. For it is the only one I know.