Letter to the Author(s), Epilogue

Well, it is not quite an epilogue, but I needed a title that started with the letter 'E.'

As defined by Webster's, an epilogue is: a section or speech at the end of a book or play that serves as a comment on or a conclusion to what has happened.

I am writing this 'epilogue' to the authors who have sent in stories to be proofread in the last month or so. It is an explanation, of sorts, as to why I have not been as responsive to your requests and emails as I have tried to be in the past. You see, dear author, my 90-year-old mother passed away last Tuesday. I was by her bedside when she took her last breath, but she was so peaceful that I did not realize she had left us for, perhaps, a couple of minutes.

Mom had been suffering from dementia over the last ten or so years, and while not clinically diagnosed as Alzheimer's, it was definitely that in her children's minds. For the last three years, she had been living in a seniors' home that specialized in caring for those with memory loss. Before that, she'd been living with me, her first-born child of three. I'd moved back to my childhood home with my wife so as to keep the surroundings as familiar as possible.

In my Literotica Biography and my Editor's Profile, I (think I) humorously try to describe why I chose to start editing smut. I lament misspellings and poor grammar, and do not get me wrong — that is true. What I do not mention is that, when the burden of caring full-time for my mother was lifted off my — our — shoulders, I found myself with a sudden surfeit of both free time and guilt.

Why editing, then? Well, my mother had been a teacher — not of English literature or composition, but a teacher nonetheless (Home Economics, if you must know, and if I am allowed to say that). Proofreading and editing allowed me to pretend to be something like a teacher, which, in my smut-addled mind, reminded me of her. She'd edited my papers and speeches when I was young — and not just ones written in English, but also those written in Japanese.

Reading smut was something that I had been (I am still sort of embarrassed to say) doing for some time, but editing was something new and challenging. It took my mind off the day-to-day stuff, and filled mornings and afternoons during my visits with her in the care home, when she was not up to talking. I was going to write something funny about finding real joy in proofreading Incest/Taboo stories about a mother and son, but my mother is not here to laugh at my poor attempt at humour.

I thought it prudent to write this missive and email it to all of you authors who are waiting or have just sent in their story. I found it difficult, and it felt unfair, to mention this in a personal email to individual authors, as I find it easier to write about it in this form. If I did write you an email in response to why is it taking so fuckin' long to get a response, I used the euphemism 'family emergency.'

A person is a story of stories; the existence of a family, a society, or even just a cold and uncaring universe implies an epilogue for every single one — that which does not end when the story does — and, of course, readers that keep on reading.

While things, of course, will never be the same here in my mother's eternal epilogue, they are getting back to something close to normal. I, one of the closest and most committed readers of her epilogue, have found myself finally able to pull my eyes away from those ethereal pages. I've resumed reviewing and proofreading other stories — the smutty ones that have been waiting for me in my queue. If my humour is a little darker than usual, you now know why. If my humour is actually a little bit funnier, now you know why. If my humour is just as bad, then forget that I ever mentioned it.

Proofreading and editing your stories has been a pleasant diversion for the past couple of years, to the point of me actually wanting to take a couple of courses in writing. For those of you who would suggest I take a course in writing humorous satire, believe me, I totally concur. I have found just such a course being offered by the University of Toronto — but, that being on the other side of the country, the commute alone may be too much.

As I mentioned, I have started up the grindstone again, so I must get back to it. If I go over the 750-word minimum, I might have to consider publishing this letter (and not review or essay) on Lit, which I do not really want to do.

Thank you for your patience, your loyalty, and, hopefully, for your understanding.

Kindest regards,

Kenji Sato

Postscript: Seeing that I cannot use my mother's 'Royal' typewriter to actually type this letter, I have purposely inserted two spaces after a period — the way I was taught... by my mother.

A sincere thank you to np for editing this epilogue.

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