Seven Satin Nights: Forward
by Henry Gaudet


It was bound to happen eventually.

You have, I’m sure, at some stage heard of the parable of the monkeys: the hypothetical room filled with monkeys hammering at typewriters leading inevitably to a case of accidental plagiarism.

God has his own hypothetical room, filled with an infinity of chittering universes bashing out nonsensical worlds until one inevitably produces a primate capable not only of mimicking Shakespeare, but translating him into seven languages – two of them non-human – and offering a detailed analysis from a simian viewpoint. This ape (no, not a monkey, thank you very much, but a chimpanzee born and raised in Cincinnati) might even be a gifted writer in his own right, perhaps put forward as a potential poet laureate. Is it such a stretch that this hypothetical ape might not care for the Bard’s work?

Had I been born in another age when the sonnet still spoke to the masses, I might feel differently about Shakespeare. I might be content to continue in his tradition, as my first agent suggested, and become the first chimpanzee to write in iambic pentameter. Certainly, the media were eager for me to take up my punch line destiny and generate their easy headlines.

Instead, I chose a career path peppered with roadblocks. Had I chosen the academic path, I have no doubt that I would have been readily accepted. Rather than hinder my progress, the novelty of my non-human perspective might well have opened doors. Even in fiction, I had easier options available: horror, science fiction, political thriller. These were all acceptable genres for a chimp trying to make a name for himself. In the conversation that led to my first agent’s dismissal, buddy pic screenplays were repeatedly suggested.

Even in these enlightened times, it seems that some people just aren’t ready for a male romance novelist.

Friends, editors, agents and even one late night television personality all tried to steer me away from romance. They said if I was determined to continue writing romance, I should at least adopt a feminine pen name. As you can tell from this book’s cover, I refused. What might be less clear is my motivation. Why make my life more difficult? Why not just take the easy path? After all, it’s only a name, right?

I came into this world more alone than most, with nothing to call my own. I never knew my parents, never met a single family member. My earliest memories are of the Moorehouse Research Lab in College Hill. There, Dr. Swanson gifted me with my first possession: a name, and with it, an identity.

It was also there that I acquired my love for language, and where I first encountered Danielle Steel.

By the time I was four, I was literate in three languages, but the texts available to me were children’s schoolbooks and the occasional daily paper. Reading was a practical matter, a method of passing on information. I didn’t discover recreational literature until much later. Until my dear friend, Bess.

Bess joined the team as an intern when I was eight. She would bring books with her to pass the hours of tedious monitoring on the night shift. She kept her backpack on the table next to my cot. Out of curiosity, I helped myself while she was looking after the lemurs or timing rats or some such. There were three dog-eared paperbacks, and chance directed my hand to the work of Ms. Steel.

It was a bit racy for one of my tender years, so of course I was riveted. This was to be my introduction to the facts of life, and while some of the euphemisms escaped me, I managed to get the gist. The book’s appeal, though, wasn’t merely its informational value. This was my first glimpse of something missing from my life: this tenderness, this passion, this fire.

Bess was eager to share, and we discussed her books over grilled cheese and orange pekoe. She brought them by the armload which I devoured in hours. Soon, I was writing my own romances, short stories mostly. Two days before my tenth birthday, I sold my first piece. Others followed and, eventually, I began writing novels.

The most important relationships in my life have been with humans, and while over the years most have been very caring and friendly, there is always a distance, a species gap that cannot –and, quite frankly, should not – be bridged. Unfortunately, due to my unique mindset, I have similar difficulty relating to chimpanzees. Even in maturity, intimacy, passion and romance continue to elude me.

And so, I write.

You have in your hands a collection of my earliest stories, written while I still lived in Cincinnati. I’m afraid that this young novelist’s limited understanding of the human heart was exposed from time to time, but overall, I think these stories hold up well. I am especially proud of Savage Land, Savage Heart – the first appearance of Monica Crandall, and the first hints of her dark past.

I hope that you enjoy these tales, whether reading them for the first time or returning to an old friend.

Yours,

Solomon Nine


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I am a newcomer to the world of fiction, professionally at least. I have pieces due to be published in upcoming issues/episodes of Outburst magazine and the Drabblecast podcast. I am, in no particular order, a husband, a father, a Kevin Smith lookalike, a Pennsylvanian living in Ireland, and a bad dancer.