J. V. Perrone
Published: 2014-05-31
Total Pages: 551
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As the author of this novel, I prefer not to provide biographic data, except to disclose that I currently reside in Florida, having moved there in 2004 after working in the financial district of New York City. While still a rail commuter from New Jersey, my daily morning route included taking the PATH train from Hoboken into the basement of the World Trade Center where, especially when the weather was spring-like, I usually would exit the complex through its central plaza and, from there, walk the three blocks to my office. My timing was such that I was usually in the plaza by 8:45 AM in order to be on time for work. Having returned a few days earlier from a tiring vacation, I decided that fateful Tuesday morning of September 11, 2001 to get a few extra winks of sleep and to take the late train to work. As a result, I was about thirty minutes later than usual, and not where I normally would have been at 8:46 AM when the first plane struck the north tower of the World Trade Center. If the events of that day did not change my perspective on life, then the following weeks and months of working in the humbling atmosphere of such a terrible disaster did. Many questions were asked and not answered. Was it by human design alone? Was it because of divine punishment? In any event, in order to mentally escape the reality of an environment in which physical escape was not then possible, I found that when I had a private moment to think (on the subway, the commuter train, on a work break, etc.), I did so with pen in hand. And what emerged at the time were poems that helped me deal with questions of the soul and resolve the remorse I felt which was later replaced with a sense of hope. Although I always had what I thought to be a talent for writing, through which I could express thoughts and feelings in a way I never could do verbally, I had never written anything of consequence before that disastrous day in 2001. And yet, looking back, it seemed that whatever pen I subsequently used in writing those poems, which eventually turned out to be many, must have had a magical connection because the words came only after first picking up the pen. Many times, the words came quickly without my having to think, as if I was simply transcribing what was being dictated. It was the same with this novel. I never planned to write a novel and, most certainly, do not consider myself an author. But one day, a thought came into my head, causing me to pick up a pen and, on a simple notepad, I began to write the first chapter of this book. The characters immediately came into being and, essentially, it is their novel, their story. At times, when the story stagnated, causing me to sit at the computer while my fingers remained still, it was as if the characters had nothing to say; so much so, that if a family member who knew of the writing of this novel would ask me, at the time, how it was coming along, my answer would be that the characters weren’t talking to me. So maybe this isn’t a novel at all. Maybe it all did happen a long while ago, and that through some kind of a time anomaly, the people described herein may have telepathically communicated their story to me so that this world that we live in today could have knowledge of what once had been. I really don’t know – what do you think? J. V. Perrone
