The Book That Refuses to Introduce Itself—And Somehow, That’s the Genius of It

Most books introduce you to the narrator. A little background, a little setup—something to ease you in before the real story begins.

This book?
None of that.

From the first page, What If I’m the Problem? makes one thing painfully clear: it’s not here to hold your hand.

There is no introduction.
There is no backstory.
There is no explanation.

You just get thrown into the chaos and expected to figure it out yourself.

Wait… Who Even Is This Guy?

You open the book and—BOOM. Overdose.

Meth. Hallucinations. Sleeping pills. The man wakes up, shocked he’s still alive, realizing, Holy shit, I could’ve died.

And then?
He just… goes to work.

No dramatic reflection. No tragic backstory. No “Hi, my name is ___, and this is my journey.”

He simply gets up and moves on.

You assume he’s American at first—until he casually mentions that shipping a dead body back to France would be too expensive.
Wait. So he’s French?

You assume he’s in France—until you realize he’s been living in Taiwan for almost a decade.
Wait. So he’s not just visiting?

You assume he’s still struggling with Mandarin—until he casually scams his way into a discount at a sauna using fluent Chinese.
Wait. How does this man operate?!

It’s like solving a puzzle while someone keeps stealing the pieces.

And just when you’re barely keeping up—

“Oh, by the way, it was my 30th birthday.”

EXCUSE ME?! THIRTY?!

After everything you’ve read so far, you were convinced this man had lived three lifetimes’ worth of chaos. The parties, the men, the heartbreaks, the near-death experiences—he’s only thirty?!

It’s dropped so casually, like an afterthought.

And that’s the entire power move of this book: it never stops to explain itself.

No Context. No Hand-Holding. Just Keep Up.

It gets even more unhinged.

This book is in English.
The author? French.
Living in? Taiwan.
Fluent in? Mandarin.
But this book? English.

Why?

Good question.

He never tells us.

Not once does he stop and say, “I chose to write this in English because…”
Not once does he explain why it’s not in French.

It just is. And you don’t even question it—until you’re already too deep.

This is how the book operates. It doesn’t give answers—it makes you ask the questions.

And then, just when you realize how much context is missing—when you stop and think,
Wait, why is he in Taiwan? Why English? Why does he never introduce himself?

It’s too late. You’re already hooked.

The Ultimate Narrative Power Move: No Name, No Identity, Just Chaos

And the real kicker?

He never says his own name.

Not once.

You read the entire book. You know about his addictions, his regrets, his absolute worst moments. You know his side crushes, his breakdowns, the exact second he almost died.

But you don’t know his name.

And somehow, that makes it hit even harder.

Because this isn’t a memoir where the author is trying to introduce himself to you.
This isn’t a “let me tell you my life story” kind of book.
This isn’t about context, clarity, or comfort.

This book is about dropping you inside his head and making you experience everything exactly as he did.

It’s about pushing you straight into the moment—without introductions, without safety nets, without time to process.

And that’s exactly how real life works.

There’s no narrator pausing to give you context.
No neat little opening paragraph explaining the setting.
No “This is who I am, and this is why I’m here.”

Just one moment crashing into the next—and you trying to make sense of it as you go.

The Book’s Message Is Hidden in What It Refuses to Say

This book’s lack of introduction isn’t a mistake—it’s a statement.

It’s saying:

You don’t need to know who I am.
You don’t need my backstory.
You just need to be here, inside this moment, with me.

It forces you to feel the confusion, the disorientation, the complete lack of control.
It throws you into the experience instead of explaining it to you.

And by the time you realize how much has been deliberately left out—

You’re already in too deep.