Seven Satin Nights

Forward
It was bound to happen eventually.
You have no doubt at some stage heard of the parable of the monkeys. Its a tired old
analogy trotted out from time to time for a cheap laugh. The hypothetical room filled
with hypothetical monkeys hammering at hypothetical typewriters inevitably leads to
a case of accidental plagiarism. The moral is simple enough: given enough time, even
the most unlikely of events will come to pass, which leads rather neatly into my own
career as a writer.
You see, God has his own hypothetical room where hypothetical infinities hammer at
hypothetical worlds until one produces a primate capable not only of copying
Shakespeare, but translating him into seven languages two of them non-human
and offering a detailed analysis from a simian viewpoint. This hypothetical ape (no,
not a monkey but a chimpanzee born and raised in Cincinnati) might be a gifted writer
in his own right, perhaps even put forward as a potential poet laureate.
Is it such a stretch that this hypothetical ape might not care for the Bards work?
Perhaps, had I been born in another age when the sonnet could still speak 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. Even in these enlightened
times, it seems that some people just arent ready for a male romance novelist. Had I
chosen the academic path, I have no doubt that I would have been readily accepted.
Even in fiction, I had easier options available: horror, science fiction, political thriller.
These were all acceptable genres for a male chimp trying to make a name for himself.
In the conversation that led to my first agents dismissal, buddy pic screenplays were
repeatedly suggested.
I was told that if I was determined to continue writing romance, I should at least
adopt a feminine pen name. As you can tell from this books 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, its only a name, right?
I never knew my parents, never met a single family member. I came into this world
with nothing to call my own. 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, a place in the world.
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 childrens schoolbooks and the occasional daily paper. Reading was a practical

matter for me then, a method of passing on information. I didnt discover recreational

literature until much later.
When I was eight, a mousy little intern named Bess would bring books with her for
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
did manage to get the gist. The books appeal, though, wasnt 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 discuss her books with me 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 simply cannot 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. Im afraid that this young novelists 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