Who Is the “Prelude Girl”?
There’s a word for the person someone dates just before they get serious with “the one.” Some call her a placeholder—in Tagalog, “panakip-butas.” The label is blunt and flattening. It names a function, not a person.
When Marjorie Gavan began writing the poems that became The Prelude Girl, she was trying to name an ache without erasing herself inside it. “Placeholder” felt like a verdict. So she reached for a new word.
“Prelude Girl is something I can call myself to reclaim my agency.”
“Prelude” shifts the frame. A prelude introduces the main theme—but it’s music in its own right. It carries tone, texture, and intention. In these poems, the speaker isn’t a discarded background; she’s a woman taking inventory of her tenderness and her thresholds, and then choosing herself.
The book moves through clandestine affection, the rituals of heartbreak, and the hard clarity that follows. It doesn’t ask for closure. It gives language to what often goes unnamed—and it lets the “prelude girl” walk off the page as a whole person.
Why the Title Matters
Words shape how we survive. Calling yourself a prelude instead of a placeholder doesn’t rewrite history, but it restores dignity to the one who loved, tried, and finally cut the thread. That reclamation is the heart of this collection.
Be There When We Open the Book
Launch: Sat, Aug 30, 2025 · 2:00 PM
Venue: Capri Art Café & Gallery, 289 A Mabini St, Barangay Nueva, San Pedro, 4023 Laguna
RSVP: haribon@haribonpublishing.com
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