She is alone in October, in a heated metropolis emblazoned with the signifiers of too many people, projected onto surfaces—a thousand Pablos and Anas and Jims—faces and names, faces and names, people as content, the idea of people, people without people.
This book is not a complete autobiography; it does not tell the whole life or attempt to explain everything. It is a description of psychosis, a break from reality, and the memories it contains represent paths back to that reality, to the “historical time” the patient has departed.
Sometimes, she thinks, memory lodges in the body. She’s always suspected that people have been wrong about the brain, about the flashes of light and color sparking in its folds, compressed by hard skull. Memory travels down arms and legs familiar with the dance, under the arch of the spine or the foot. The body remembers.
I believe that the arc of the universe can be bent toward justice, but it does not happen by itself. History is not inevitable. It is the result of choices that people make, and decisions that institutions embrace.
You could say that Wayward is a novel about rage and despair, which are two sides of the same coin; as well as privilege and risk, which are the same side of two different coins. It’s a novel about who gets to choose the conditions of their existence, and what it means—indeed, whether it is possible—to reject the “choices” that have been made for you.