Simply put, the problem with a pseudonym is, (I realized while shaving that morning, June 16th [Bloomsday]), nobody knows it's you.

Until, of course, your friends and family figure it out.   And by then, as you might have guessed, it's a little too late.

"Sam Finch, you beast," someone declares across a crowded room, "I hear you've written the most appalling things about me, all under a false name."

"And every word of it true," you shout back.

Or:

"Just picked up your memoirs, Finch old man," an old chum confides at the local social club to which you both belong, "all about your shady dealings in the art trade. [Death Has Been Good to Us: a Tale of High Prices and Low Life, privately printed, currently unavailable].   I say, you really shouldn't have used a nom de plume.  Would have saved me buying the damn thing if I'd known it was you banging on in that shocking manner.  Dreadful nonsense, can't think what possessed you."

Or:

"If you are indeed the Mr. FInch who once taught at Miss ________'s School for Girls, you may be interested in what I have to say regarding your recent blog entry..."

Or:

"Sam, darling, now I know why they call you 'The Sieve.'  You really can't keep a secret, can you?  You naughty boy, please call me as soon as you get this."

Or:

"Dear Nephew, is nothing sacred?  Your Aunt Agatha."

And you don't even have an Aunt Agatha.

As you can imagine, wanting to protect the good name of Finch, (and of Sam of which I am also quite fond), I have agonized over how to proceed with this latest literary effort which you have by now come across, in bits and pieces in these pages.  Fiction is always such a refuge and a comfort, as you know.  The people you meet and come to know, your family, your loved ones and enemies are perfect material, grist for the mill; the art of fiction allows you the opportunity to improve upon their roughly sketched out reality, their incomplete and meandering, unshapely narratives.  Yes, lying is a cheat but the trick is to lie with as much truth as humanly possible. 

In my experience, however, the truth is really not all that much stranger than fiction.  The truth is that nearly every man likes to fancy himself a Ulysses on a voyage of discovery and adventure.  Every day, every pit stop along the way contains a potential tale of passion, every moment a battle with its setbacks and triumphs, tragedies, small victories, conquests, and so forth. 

Every Pam is a Penelope.  Every Didier a Telemachus.

Thus, more or less, while standing at the stairhead, bowl of lather, mirror and razor in hand, yellow dressinggown ungirdled, on a mild morning ages ago, 1904 was born.  An excuse, an alias, assumed name, not quite something you'd come across in the witness protection program perhaps, but close.  The mockery of it, I thought gaily at the time, this absurd moniker, this cryptic cypher: a date, a number.  

But moving on.  Although you may assume, not without justification, that you already know me as an old acquaintance, confidante, spiritual (or financial) adviser, former colleague, brotherly comrade, devoted and memorably accomplished lover, that neighbor who lives down the hall and keeps to himself though he has odd types coming and going at all hours, a distant relative perhaps, or more remotely, nothing but a vaguely familiar name of some character you remember coming across in a curiously compelling yet unsolicited manuscript you ended up turning down without much more than a cursory glance at the first couple pages...  yet pay heed:  a new voice is born. 

Oh, 1904 will no doubt chime in again, from time to time, as the spirit moves him, so not to worry.  And I promise to continue to lie to you as much as I have in the past, or at least as much as it takes to tell a good story.

But with a whole lot of truth thrown in along the way.