Anatomy Of A Misfit
The Writing of Anatomy of a Misfit:
I knew I would write this story one day. I had to.
I’ll never forget the morning we got the news. The entire town buckled over that one snowless, freezing day in March.
I can still see his house… that simple, suburban house on that simple suburban street, seemingly unaware of the secrets it kept, of the secrets it would keep.
I see that house in my head when I think of Dylan. Always a grey, dreary sky behind it. And the news trucks. And the next day at school. And the collective sweeping under the rug we all did. The entire town.
It was a different time.
Did you know that Dylan haunts me? Not in my dreams or even in my nightmares. Just in my day to day life. I think of him and his brother and his little sister. I think of their mother. I think about that night and what they felt. Did they know? Please God make them not have known.
And I want you to know it, too.
I want you to know them, too.
To know Dylan.
Because he was not just a name in an endless series of names on a ever-growing list.
He was the kid who rode to school that first day on a moped. And made haikus. And pinned his jeans. Without permission. He was the kid who fell in love with me. And I wish I had been better at all that then.
Writing this book is my way of trying to make it better.
But you know, I never will.