Hallaforth and Trobogan
It is the last day of the year. Possibly the decade, if you believe in that sort of thing.
Could we agree, dear reader, that if this were really the end, we might start afresh with a new beginning?
I'm talking about changing the months! Change the names. Time travel is lovely, but I’ve had enough Januaries; I’ve had enough Janvieres, Januars and eneros!
I want to celebrate New Year’s day in the month of Hallaforth! I want to kiss my lover in Trobogan. I want the last month of the year to be named Muenster…(Just for a year!)
In a palatial fortress at the edge of Space and Time, in a room where people believe in nothing, some sort of elderly man is clicking stones together along the floor in a game of rainbow colored marbles.
in march of 2009 I realized with startling clarity that I wanted to be a novelist.
Years of worry and self doubt were erased. Like the fat baggage of a cracking glacier, everything I wasn’t sloughed off into nothing. I quit comedy. I quit screenwriting. I stopped worrying about comics (even if I still wanted to write them someday)and I just decided to do what made me happy.
I wrote a novel.Got burned and destroyed and let down more than any other moment of my life. And I fucking loved it. Running through a bramble when it’s on the way home just doesn’t seem as bad as when you’re lost.
I put the novel away, I started another one. It died on the page. My baby. And I fucking loved it.
Now I’m working on my true, second novel, and It’s over a hundred pages of fucked up typos, shitty writing, and poor choices of character.
And I love it.
So the old man clicks his rocks in a chalk circle in a place of nowhere, smiling at my good fortunes.
The Fine makers of calendar Incorporated miss out on lucrative opportunities and print another Page of Januarys.
I am sitting at a keyboard, smiling.