A Moxie and a Whoopie Pie

I don't like prologues. My editor, William Pruitt, made me put this in against my will. What I need you to do is to get a pen (or pencil, or crayon) and cross out where it says "Prologue" and write "Chapter One" instead.

There. Problem solved.

William and I didn't always agree, but he really was a magician: he created the illusion that I was a competent writer. I did not envy him this Sisyphean task. On a rare visit to his office, I spoke to him across the vast expanse of his disgustingly uncluttered Brazilian mahogany desk. How anyone could work like that was a mystery to me. My reflection in the polished top was so clear I couldn't resist sticking out my tongue and making an ogre face at myself. William had known me for years and was accustomed to this sort of behavior.

"The time has come," I said, "for me to write my memoir."

He looked at me as if shocked to find so much stupidity contained in a single diminutive woman. Provoking William's exasperation was a game I liked to play, probing the limits of his patience each time we met. He preferred to conduct our business by mail and phone, but I could exasperate him there, too.

He frowned at me. Feeling like a schoolgirl about to endure a scolding from the principal, I squirmed on his leather office couch that cost more than my car. The couch made a farting noise.

"That wasn't me."

You'd think for that kind of money they'd give you a couch that doesn't fart. William pretended no couches or bottoms had spoken.

"Your...memoir," he repeated.

"Yep."

He took a deep breath. "Tell me, Bonnie-Kate, do you recall the book you published last summer?"

"Which one?" I knew damn well which one.

"It's called Would You Like a Pop Tart. It's your memoir."

"Oh, that. Yeah, I remember."

"So..."

He waited for me to concede my mistake, but I hadn't made one. When I declined to respond, he came right to the point. That's an effective tactic to use on me since I'm a little slow on the uptake.

"So...you have already written your memoir. A few months ago."

"Right. But I had to leave out a lot of the sex, violence and fart jokes. Now my conscience is bugging me. I need to write an honest one."

"If you publish two different memoirs in the same year, you will undermine your own credibility. Your readers will never trust you again."

My readers had no reason to trust me in the first place. I lied to them all the time. That was my job. But that was beside the point.

"I didn't say I was going to publish it, just that I'm going to write it."

His eye-roll may have been involuntary, but I didn't think so. Score one for me.

"As I'm sure you're aware, Ms. Caldwell, we are a publishing house. If you don't intend to publish it, why are you here?"

"I was in town so I popped in to say hi."

"Hi, Bonnie-Kate. Anything else?" He drummed his fingers on his super-fancy desk.

"I think that about covers it. Unless you want to grab some lunch? My treat."

"It's eight fifteen in the morning."

"Too early? Wait a sec..." I rummaged in my purse. "Would you like a Pop Tart?"

"Yes. Yes, I would. Blueberry. Frosted, please. Toasted, if you don't mind."

Touché, William. Well played.

When we met many years ago, William told me an author was permitted just one exclamation point per novel. His tone suggested he would prefer one per career. Sorry, but my life has had a lot more exclamation points than that.

Should you choose to read this (mostly) un-Williamized account of my cartoonish and patently absurd life, be warned: you will be exposed to a certain amount of violence, some graphic. I lost a few body parts over the years, including an eye and half of my right leg (guess which half!). I committed some of the violence myself, like the time when I killed a guy. He was asking for it, so it wasn't technically my fault.

You will also encounter adult situations in these pages, and brief nudity.

Wait. Full disclosure, the nudity is prolonged.

And, as you've already seen, I wasn't kidding about the fart jokes.