|This is where I'm going to stay, maybe.|
Meanwhile, I've been thinking about metafiction. I've been reading Portnoy's Complaint which is really great. Alexander digressively works back and forth, building suspense, dropping tidbits about his sex life and we can't wait to read more of the juicy stuff. And he very self-consciously makes note that his memories may be misconstrued:
"...Now, whether the words I hear are the words spoken is something else again. And whether what I hear I hear out of compassion for him, out of my agony over the inevitability of this horrific occurrence, his death, or out of my eager anticipation of that event, is also something else again."
Roy showed me a book by some writer whose name I can't remember but there was a metafictional part where he tells the reader that he's going to write about these characters reading a newspaper because he finds that interesting. And so the characters, both bad poets, are supposed to reflect him and things get all metamodern.
But see what I'm going to do is allow the protagonist to look out of the page and talk to the author. And that ain't no April Fools. You smell me?