Seven Satin Nights - Forward

It was bound to happen eventually. 

You have, I’m sure, at some stage heard the parable of the monkeys: the hypothetical room filled with monkeys hammering at typewriters leading inevitably to a case of accidental plagiarism. 

God has his own hypothetical room, where an infinity of chittering universes bash out nonsensical worlds until one inevitably produces a primate capable not only of mimicking Shakespeare, but translating him into seven languages – two of them non-human – and offering a detailed analysis from a simian viewpoint.  This ape (no, not a monkey, thank you very much, but a chimpanzee born and raised in Cincinnati) might even be a gifted author in his own right.

Is it such a stretch that this hypothetical ape might not care for the Bard’s work?

Had I been born in another age when the sonnet still spoke to the masses, I might feel differently about Shakespeare.  I might be content to continue in his tradition, as my first agent suggested, becoming the first chimpanzee to write in iambic pentameter.  Certainly, the media were eager for me to take up my punch line destiny and generate their easy headlines.

Instead, I chose a career path peppered with roadblocks.  Had I chosen academia, I have no doubt that I would have been readily accepted, and the novelty of my non-human perspective might well have opened doors rather than hindered progress.  Even in fiction, I had easier options available: horror, science fiction, political thriller. These were all acceptable genres for a chimp trying to make a name for himself.  In the conversation that led to my first agent’s dismissal, buddy pic screenplays were repeatedly suggested.

It seems that even in these enlightened times, people just aren’t ready for a male romance novelist. 

Friends, editors, and even one late night television personality all tried to steer me away from the genre.  They said if I was determined to continue, I should at least adopt a feminine pen name.  As you can tell from this book’s cover, I refused.  What might be less clear is my motivation.  Why make my life more difficult? 

After all, what’s in a name, right?

I came into this world more alone than most, with nothing to call my own.  I never knew my parents, never met a single family member.  My earliest memories are of the Moorehouse Research Lab in College Hill where Dr. Swanson gifted me with my first possession: a name, and with it, an identity.   

It was also there that I acquired my love for language, and where I first encountered Danielle Steel. 

By the time I was four, I was literate in three languages, but the texts available to me were children’s schoolbooks and the occasional daily paper.  Reading was a practical matter, a method of passing on information.  I didn’t discover recreational literature until much later.  Until Bess.

Bess joined the team when I was eight.  She would read to pass the tedious night shift hours, and she kept her backpack on the table next to my cot.  Out of curiosity, I helped myself while she was weighing lemurs or timing rats or some such.  There were three dog-eared paperbacks, and chance directed my hand to the work of Ms. Steel.

It was a bit racy for one of my tender years, so of course I was riveted.  This was to be my introduction to the facts of life, and while some of the euphemisms escaped me, I managed to get the gist.  The book’s appeal, though, wasn’t merely its informational value.  This was my first glimpse of something missing from my life: this tenderness, this passion, this fire. 

Bess adored these stories and was eager to share.  We discussed them over grilled cheese and orange pekoe.  She brought books by armloads which I would devour in hours.  Soon, I was writing my own romances, short stories mostly.  Two days before my tenth birthday, I sold my first piece.  Others followed and, eventually, I began writing novels.

The important relationships in my life have been with humans.  Over the years, most have ranged from the cordial to the friendly and caring, but there is always a distance, a species gap that cannot –and, quite frankly, should not – be bridged.  Unfortunately, due to my unique mindset, I have similar difficulties with chimpanzees.  Even in maturity, intimacy continues to elude me. 

And so, I write.

You have in your hands a collection of my earliest stories, written while I still lived in Cincinnati.  I’m afraid that this young novelist’s limited understanding of the human heart was exposed from time to time, but overall, I think these stories hold up well.  I am especially proud of Savage Land, Savage Heart – the first appearance of Monica Crandall, and the first hints of her dark past. 

I hope that you enjoy these tales, whether reading them for the first time or returning to an old friend. 

Yours,
Solomon Nine