1)      The title of the book will be: The Man Who Is Not My Mother
2)      A written synopsis:
I’m currently working half time from home while on parental leave, and “the man who is not my mother” is written from my new daughter’s perspective, if she was an Elizabethan megalomaniac. I think my experience is pretty common, as a new father, in that I cannot escape the feeling that I am basically “the other one.” Superfluous. And I’m now the primary caregiver, or from her perspective:
"A record of the deprecations to which I am subject while left to this philistine. Despite my five months of age I am kept captive in this place alongside this cretin and the house beast, whilst my mother makes her forays out of doors.  I curate allies (Gorilla was never worth his salt; Bunny was always going to be the natural garroteman). My vocal prowess can kill a bird in the air at 30 paces. My campaign of sleep interruption and deprivation bleeds the man who is not my mother of his vital essence; his face hangs off of his skull. A pity my mother suffers also; every plan has collateral damage. I wax as they wane. I bide my time. They grow weak as I grow strong."
3)      Examples of the book’s concept:
"Some mix of prescience, suspicion, and fascism has bade the man who is not my mother keep me close at hand. The infernal rocking contraption rests next to the great hillock of a bed he shares with my mother. Despite his drooling, stunned repose, I’ve come to enjoy those gentle pre-light hours, curled next to my mother.
Now, he means to prise this meagre joy from me; he prepares another room in the house to serve as my cell. Blackout shades, the table for changing, a mattress of just the right size, ringed ‘bout with bars. A rendition room, a black site. Put Bunny and Elephant in there… They mean to work me over in there, patting me and bouncing.
Sleep with one eye open. When the revolution comes, a cell for the prisoner can just as easily become a cell for the captor. We’ll see how you like your bed with bars.”

1)      The title of the book will be: The Man Who Is Not My Mother

2)      A written synopsis:

I’m currently working half time from home while on parental leave, and “the man who is not my mother” is written from my new daughter’s perspective, if she was an Elizabethan megalomaniac. I think my experience is pretty common, as a new father, in that I cannot escape the feeling that I am basically “the other one.” Superfluous. And I’m now the primary caregiver, or from her perspective:

"A record of the deprecations to which I am subject while left to this philistine. Despite my five months of age I am kept captive in this place alongside this cretin and the house beast, whilst my mother makes her forays out of doors.  I curate allies (Gorilla was never worth his salt; Bunny was always going to be the natural garroteman). My vocal prowess can kill a bird in the air at 30 paces. My campaign of sleep interruption and deprivation bleeds the man who is not my mother of his vital essence; his face hangs off of his skull. A pity my mother suffers also; every plan has collateral damage. I wax as they wane. I bide my time. They grow weak as I grow strong."

3)      Examples of the book’s concept:

"Some mix of prescience, suspicion, and fascism has bade the man who is not my mother keep me close at hand. The infernal rocking contraption rests next to the great hillock of a bed he shares with my mother. Despite his drooling, stunned repose, I’ve come to enjoy those gentle pre-light hours, curled next to my mother.

Now, he means to prise this meagre joy from me; he prepares another room in the house to serve as my cell. Blackout shades, the table for changing, a mattress of just the right size, ringed ‘bout with bars. A rendition room, a black site. Put Bunny and Elephant in there… They mean to work me over in there, patting me and bouncing.

Sleep with one eye open. When the revolution comes, a cell for the prisoner can just as easily become a cell for the captor. We’ll see how you like your bed with bars.”

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