Nonfiction: A Novel

Nonfiction: A Novel is an unflinching account of a mother, daughter, wife, and author reckoning with the world around her. But can a writer ever be trusted with the truth of her own story? 

An excerpt from Nonfiction by Julie Myerson:

There’s a night—I think this is the middle of June—when we lock you in the house. We don’t want to do it, but—or so we tell each other—we seem to have no choice. In those days we rarely go out, any kind of social activity has begun to seem pointless, but for some reason I no longer remember we don’t want to miss this dinner. So we lock all the doors and leave you with a hammer, so you can smash a window in case of fire. Your father doesn’t think this is necessary, but I think it’s necessary. I don’t want you to die in a fire. Or, I don’t want to have to sit through a dinner party on the other side of town, while all the time worrying that you might die in a fire.

I know, of course I do, that it makes no sense—to leave you locked in there while still armed with the means of escape. I know it’s entirely possible, given the state of mind you’re in, that you might start a fire just so you can have a reason to smash the window. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve taken such a risk, damaging property or possessions simply in order to get your way. It is, let’s face it, exactly the kind of reckless trick you are capable of pulling back then.

But I have to admit that you don’t do that. You make no attempt at all to get out. You microwave the dinner we leave for you and you rinse the plate and put it in the dishwasher and then, after watching something on your laptop, you go up to bed.

When we return, the house is silent. Nothing seems to be missing or damaged. No money has been taken. The hammer is exactly where we left it on the table in the hall. You do not appear to have made any attempt to break the glass.

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