Throughout my life, I’ve been a big fan of fiction that started out serialized: the big, sexy, roiling novels that went any and everywhere, parceled out in newspapers and scandal sheets, one adventure at a time—The Count of Monte Cristo, say, and Sherlock Holmes. This novel of mine—a “drawer novel,” one that’s been hiding away for nine years now—is hardly that; it’s a bit dreamy, and literary, and very gay. Nonetheless, as emperor of this, my newsletter kingdom, I can fulfill my dream of serialization, parceling out this strange dark little onyx one shard at a time. Like the broadsheets, the penny dreadfuls, you can access it for a nominal fee. What will be here in the future: perhaps a continuation of this story once my slender manuscript is used; or another and new work of fiction; a narrative I make as I go, constructing the road under my own feet one step at a time. 

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