Sometimes I read the foreword to literature I encounter, and other times not; it usually depends on how exciting the first sentence is.
For example, if it starts, “I woke up in a giant pool of blood,” then yes, I’m definitely on board. What the heck is going on that made that happen? If it starts, “I woke up in a bathtub full of blood,” then I’m not so sure. A bathtub is much smaller than a pool, so the explanation is probably more straightforward. (It was like that when I got there; I was taking a normal bubble bath of blood and just fell asleep; my mom is coming to visit me and I wanted to spruse the place up for her, also she is a vampire; etc.) I’m 50-50 on that scenario. If it starts, “I woke up with a 44 oz. Big Gulp of blood somewhere in my vicinity,” then I’m sorry, but that’s just not good enough.
The following is an essay I have written on barefoot running. I’m not usually one to share my opinions or arguments in such a public manner because I grew up in the Midwest—well, technically an idealized, stereotyped, pop-culture projection of the Midwest. And where I’m from, you keep your opinions between you, your priest or spiritual adviser, and your spouse. Any other way would be just plain gauche; we have to get along with each other, after all. There is some truth to this paragraph.
Please keep that in mind. Yet, I felt strongly that I had to write this essay, and I think you will see why.
The remainder of this article will be appearing again soon. Thanks!