What say, old boy? Job done. Let's get fucking hammered.
Okay. I know. I've been absent to the point of non-existence on this space. You're upset. I get it. But I do have a really, really good reason for not hanging out here lately:
I finished the fucking book.
No shit. It's done. I'm mean, done done. In case you're new to this site (meaning the three of you who read this thing told somebody, and they finally clicked over), I first mentioned that I was writing a book way back here. And I've even put up some excerpts from the book, here, and here. I'm not going to put up any more excerpts of the book, because it's a book and I want to get it published, and I want you to buy the fucking thing. That would be super-awesome, and I'd so appreciate it.
IF the thing ever gets a publisher, there will be many people to thank. But there's one person who gets a truckload of thanks right now, because if it wasn't for her I'd still be thinking about how great it would be to finish writing a book, instead of actually finishing writing a book. Paulina Simons has been my friend, my literary mentor, and the boot planted firmly up my ass for the last two months, as I finished something I first said I was going to do (write a book) at midnight on January 1, 1998, in her home, in front of her and her husband, after a vodka-fueled evening of laughter and resolutions. Even after I got divorced, even after I collapsed in a depressive pile on the ruins of my former life, Plink wouldn't quit on me. Thanks, Plink. Once this shit makes it to print, first round's on me. (Which will be a very inexpensive celebration, as Paullina is singly the least alcohol-tolerant Russian I have ever met. If she were Irish, we'd have kicked her out of the club a long time ago.)
Anyway: it's done. I wrote a motherfucking book, and at least one international best-selling author thinks it's funny, and tragic, and outrageous, and sad, and wrong in all the right ways. But I'm not about to sit on my ass and relax. (Technically, I DO sit on my ass when I write. It's a metaphor. And now I've spent too much time talking about my ass.) No, I'm going to be hitting the blog much more regularly. I'm going to be as regular as a dietary fiber drink. In fact, you should think of me as your weekly dose of literary fiber.
No. Wait. Never mind. That's just fuckin' gross.
I finished the fucking book.
No shit. It's done. I'm mean, done done. In case you're new to this site (meaning the three of you who read this thing told somebody, and they finally clicked over), I first mentioned that I was writing a book way back here. And I've even put up some excerpts from the book, here, and here. I'm not going to put up any more excerpts of the book, because it's a book and I want to get it published, and I want you to buy the fucking thing. That would be super-awesome, and I'd so appreciate it.
IF the thing ever gets a publisher, there will be many people to thank. But there's one person who gets a truckload of thanks right now, because if it wasn't for her I'd still be thinking about how great it would be to finish writing a book, instead of actually finishing writing a book. Paulina Simons has been my friend, my literary mentor, and the boot planted firmly up my ass for the last two months, as I finished something I first said I was going to do (write a book) at midnight on January 1, 1998, in her home, in front of her and her husband, after a vodka-fueled evening of laughter and resolutions. Even after I got divorced, even after I collapsed in a depressive pile on the ruins of my former life, Plink wouldn't quit on me. Thanks, Plink. Once this shit makes it to print, first round's on me. (Which will be a very inexpensive celebration, as Paullina is singly the least alcohol-tolerant Russian I have ever met. If she were Irish, we'd have kicked her out of the club a long time ago.)
Anyway: it's done. I wrote a motherfucking book, and at least one international best-selling author thinks it's funny, and tragic, and outrageous, and sad, and wrong in all the right ways. But I'm not about to sit on my ass and relax. (Technically, I DO sit on my ass when I write. It's a metaphor. And now I've spent too much time talking about my ass.) No, I'm going to be hitting the blog much more regularly. I'm going to be as regular as a dietary fiber drink. In fact, you should think of me as your weekly dose of literary fiber.
No. Wait. Never mind. That's just fuckin' gross.
Ridden a llama: check
Cowboy underpants: check
Ate cake as a baby: check
Motocross fashion disaster: check
Bobble head in my image: check
Voice of famous TV dog: check
Wrote a motherfuckin' book: hell yes.
No comments:
Post a Comment