It was never about the theft.

It was never about the Widow.

Maybe it was never about Geraldine, either.

Maybe it was only ever about Eleanor.

Eleanor, who told you this story from her point of view. Eleanor, whose version of events might be drastically different than if I'd told this story from Simon's point of view, or August's, or Geraldine's, or an unbiased narrator's. Eleanor, who promised she recognized her privilege yet consistently proved she didn't. Eleanor, who crumbled with every chapter and flooded every word with her heartache. Eleanor, who was inherently doubtful, apologetic, and pulsing with a longing she couldn't always identify. Eleanor, who maybe wanted to be punished, wanted to be seen as guilty, wanted to lose everything.

Maybe it was never about the romance either, or the ending.

I won't confirm what the ending was. I won't tell you how to interpret it, or who was at the gallery at the end. I won't.

Of course, clues for everything are woven throughout. Eleanor told her story from beginning to end more than once.

Sometimes it's like she's looking over my shoulder, a mirrored image of someone a few shades of soul off from me; are we still related then?

Truly, this book has been a strange journey from the very beginning. Before I had any ideas of plot, or characters, or anything of the sort, I had one simple thought for this book—I wanted to write a book that is entirely different the second time it is read. Perhaps even every time. I wanted to write a book that, in fact, probably has to be read a second time in order to be fully understood. Of course, since this is a first draft (it will be entering the editing process as soon as possible), I'm sure there's lots I need to clarify, remove, or change to make more sense. If you do choose to reread it, I encourage you to comment your thoughts and point out what you think doesn't work. Maybe those comments can be differentiated from first time reader's comments by something specific, like an emoji or "RR" for re-read, so I know.

Someone asked me once if I listen to music while I write, and if so, what I listen to; if it's what inspires me. Sure. I do. And it inspires me. But I also love music that reminds me of what I already feel, what I run from, and what I throw myself into when I'm writing. For example, I love Taylor Swift. I heard "my tears ricochet" and thought of my characters. The song was perfect; it caused an ache in all the right places. Was it Eleanor's words to Geraldine? Geraldine's to Eleanor? A duet? Yes to all of the above. Yes, I listened to music while I wrote. I made a playlist and mouthed the lyrics while ripping words from myself. I cupped written wounds when I heard "Dear Reader", "The Great War", "Look What You Made Me Do", and "Anti-Hero". Yes, I heard Eleanor in all of those (and more). I wrapped bandages and rummaged elbow-deep in prose while I heard Hozier sing "Unknown/Nth", Bastille sing "Haunt" and "Poet", David Kushner sing "Daylight", Josh Tarp and the Still sing "Vigilante". I heard Lana Del Rey sing "Blue Velvet" and "Old Money", Cavetown sing "Green", Gang of Youths sing "Achilles Come Down"...

I searched for you everywhere I went, did you look for me, too?

I want to talk about the reveal. I want to point out that Eleanor never once said "I didn't do it" in the early chapters; it wasn't said until the end. In fact, she repeatedly mourned how guilty she was throughout the book. She apologized constantly. She chose her words so very carefully from the very beginning. Yet, so many readers assumed she was innocent. Why?

Because you trusted Eleanor, the narrator, when you were given no real reason to? Why do we believe the first version of a story we hear?

Because of the lawyer's arguments? Wouldn't they say whatever they have to? Why would you trust them?

Because Eleanor was shocked when it happened? Wouldn't you be shocked at what you've done when there's no going back?

Because she was angry that others turned against her? Multiple times Eleanor wondered if the punishment fit the crime, and other times morosely claimed she deserved worse. She didn't deny the crime itself.

She was dripping with guilt, drenched in it, leaving puddles wherever she walked, and still you offered her a towel and sympathized the effects of unforgiving tides—as if she hadn't stepped off the cliff with her own two feet.

If you read this book a second time—will your perspective be different from the first time you read it? Will it change yet again by the end? Will you see how perspective changes everything, as it does in art itself? Will you think Eleanor delusional? Will she make sense? Will you dislike, or even hate her?

I want readers to ask "who knew?" when they get to the end of the book. Who was part of it? And what were they part of? Who had what secrets, if any at all? I want readers to want to go back and look for answers from the very beginning, because I promise you, there are answers (or at least possible hints) in every chapter. Maybe one day I'll go through and leave an inconspicuous mark in the comments on every hint, clue, or sign.

Again, this is only the first draft. I have a lot of things to tighten, clarify, and clean up, but I hope you enjoyed it. I hope it makes you want to go back. And I really, really hope it makes sense.

Why must I make sense? Why do you demand that of me? Prose was always shackled, poetry licks the sky with the freedom of the longest chain, and I see you, the vulture.

There's something else I want to tell you. When I started writing this book, I had no idea about van Gogh's poppies or Picasso's weeping woman. Honestly, I'd done research, but not enough to discover those. The "Weeping Widow" was inspired by the term "weeping willow". The poppies in my book were inspired by a trip to Italy, where I saw the flowers growing beside train tracks, and thought how beautiful they were even there (although this isn't the book I mentioned in ILAD as being inspired to write while in Italy, that's actually next!). It was also inspired by my earliest memory of them, of being a child with my mother outside the grocery store, and being handed a plastic poppy in remembrance of veterans. My mother told me my grandfather was a veteran. I never got the chance to meet him. For a very, very long time, I kept that plastic poppy. I actually wouldn't be surprised if it still waits in my parent's attic, buried in one of my numerous memory boxes. I'm awfully sentimental.

Call it a crime, I won't weep, but don't wither me with your derision; I value what you think of me like I do my childhood, where I would be without it?

As I was going through my notes for the end of this book, I found a bit of writing from the middle of the night, when I was probably tipsy from exhaustion. It said: "There are daisies, and poppies, and confessions planted in these pages. I buried them with loving hands, and tended them with sly grins. I will weed them one day, but they are rooted in every word I wrote for you."

Cringe, maybe, but it's a burden I'll bear.

Look, I never sat down specifically to write a happy ending. I sat down to write as much of Eleanor's story as she would let me, whatever that story turned out to be. Her and Simon, her and Geraldine, her and the Widow. Those tales weren't mine to share by simply prying them from thin air and pasting them on blank pages. This was a journey that carried me over the course of a year and a half, from my last few weeks of college to my first "adult" job much later. It was a slow development, a tentative build up over time, a trickle of midnight inspiration, a cacophony of hammered thoughts while driving. It was talking about it with my parents, and my dad asking me when it will be an audiobook (because he prefers listening over reading). It was ricocheting between loving the book and feeling like I wasn't very good at writing, thinking others were too kind to tell me. It was agonizing over this book, and the ending, and whether it made sense.

And at some point, I think I thought Eleanor was doomed. She needed more character growth than I could reasonably capture in these pages. I'm not sure if I still think that, but I knew when it was time to go. Time for her to go. But I'll be honest—I'm not sure I entirely love the ending. I'm actually not sure how I feel about it at all. I worry it could be seen as cheap to skip ahead, or too magical of a fix (one of those endings where there's no real evidence for it or reason it happened other than a desired HEA, or for shock value), or too cookie-cutter to have a third act breakup. I don't know. I'll fiddle with it all in later drafts. I just can't help but feel it's the best possible ending there realistically could be. And I don't know if we'll all interpret the ending the same.

My ending isn't as concrete as yours, or maybe it's more; I'll bear that burden, too.

I asked myself a lot of questions as I wrote this book. Can a narrator have secrets? What if the antihero thought themselves the villain? What if they were proved wrong? Did Eleanor ever lie? A real, honest lie, that wasn't small or white or a feeble fib? What was she really like before the painting was stolen? Was she ever as happy as she claimed to be? Were her parents ever really that bad, or was it like when she called a vintage Porsche "beat-up"? Every time I ruminate on this book, I have more questions, more analyses, more perspectives.

Truly, I have so much I want to say about this book. I could write another full chapter of my analyses and the process of this book's creation. For example, this was never what I intended for Simon. Poor, best-friend-of-the-love-interest-of-my-first-book, Simon. His romance wasn't supposed to turn out this way. I imagined his partner to be a wild soul with an attitude (somehow still a "villain"), but for her to truly be innocent and framed. Instead, Eleanor came to be, surrounded by a broken frame and broken glass. Guilty, guilty Eleanor.

And of course Geraldine died.

The first line of chapter one: "Geraldine Whitehill was a proud woman."

Was.

Sure, the book is in past tense, but c'mon.

Even if Eleanor wasn't doomed, Geraldine always was (as cliche as killing the old character might be).

Oh, I am a cliche smeared with oil paints, bleeding watercolors, leaning on marble like the embrace of open arms—but I'll smile at you anyway, wave, and invite you in.

I also worried for a long time that readers would be disappointed that the theft itself is never fully explained. For a long time, I had some form of intentions to explain it, or considered if I should. But this story is told from Eleanor's POV. If it wasn't, I probably would have explained the theft.

But, again, it was never truly about the theft.

It was about you. Me. Both, because aren't I like you?

This story was always about Eleanor. Eleanor wouldn't want to know how it was taken, or how Vanessa's team had planned to take it, or any of the details. Just like she hadn't wanted to know the full extent of what Geraldine had done—Eleanor loved ignorance. She craved it. She was terrified of truth because truth cost her something every time. It almost killed her to be part of it once; she wasn't sure she could do it again. She didn't know if she could stay quiet another time.

I don't recognize the Eleanor at the start of the book from the one I just said goodbye to.

I could go on forever, but I've probably embarrassed myself enough. If anyone ever wants clarification on anything or wants to talk about this book (or anything else), please comment or privately reach out to me! I love it and I love interacting with others on here.

Thank you for reading.

Truly.

Thank you.

- Hallie

My next work:

Nymphs weren't always extinct.

As an always-yearning dryad nymph, Amalfi should have been gallivanting with heroes and dipping in crystal waters. She should've been a poet's muse, a deity's follower, or an alluring beauty causing delirious madness in lovers—instead, she's fighting for her life with no end in sight.

Something is making monsters and bloodthirsty beasts descend on Campania, strangely mad and insatiably crazed. Amalfi's overwhelmed. Even if her heart would allow her to abandon her home, there's no easy escape through the unforgiving cliffs or the perilous political unease nearby. Then there's the strange man who washed up on shore, grievously injured and half-drowned. He can't remember a thing—and now he's as stuck as she is.

--------------------------

Luc was once somebody.

He knows that. Deep down, he knows he was once somebody great, somebody mighty. He must have been. He was surely important; his body is littered with scars of battle, his arms feel uncertain without the grip of a blade, and his reflexes are too sharp and electric for mundane living. But who he was and who he wasn't, if he was ever anyone at all, isn't his to know these days. He doesn't even know his real name. He only remembers a ship. A strike of lightning. A beautiful nymph chasing him off the beach he'd washed up on.

Recovering from battles he can't remember, he finds himself at her mercy. For all he knows, he's running, hiding from the gods.

But there's no hiding from monsters.