As we stand on the cusp of a new year blah blah blah. . .
I'm revising this post. Feel free to read or not read, respond or not respond. I have an insatiable urge to thank some people and say some stuff.
I wrote CHERRY this year. Best damn thing I ever wrote, and I owe that in large part to people here who read the thing in whole or part and gave me such great advice: Sohalt, Resasi, Overwined, K. Trian, Buzhidao, Jim Clark-Dawe, Quicklime, ElijahSydney, WillSauger, Lyxdeslic, Foley, who did I forget? Oh, CharacterInWhite has it, so does T. Trian.
How do I thank you guys?
Thinking about the people here who've consistently and generously given their time and expertise to the rest of us: Jim-Clark Dawe, JanDarby, Jaligard, Quick, Stacia Kane, I can't begin to name them all, why did I try?
What about Putputt, Lyx, Foley, mccardey. . . everybody who gave me encouragement and/or a swift kick in the ass, who helped me wade through the crap and laugh and cry and rip my heart out. . .
What can I say?
I beta read novels written by jcd and lyx. How cool is that?
I met Steve Hamilton. He wrote The Lock Artist. He read my stuff. How amazing is that?
I've written stuff I'm really proud of, and stuff I truly regret. I'm really sorry, you two. You know who you are.
I'm saying "stuff" a lot.
GINGERSNAP, aka, Insanity Personified, will likely never see the light of day, but as I reflect back on 2012, I think it only apropos that I end this with an excerpt, and so I shall. . .Happy New Year, everybody.In the course of our lives, we change who we are many times over: year-to-year, month-to-month, even day-to-day. Our lives can turn on a dime. A single experience—no matter how spectacular or mundane—can change who we are, what we are, in seconds.
How do we comprehend the vast complexity of our lives? How do we mark and measure a lifetime molded and sullied by not just our experiences, but by the human experience?
This is what we do, out of necessity: we forego telescope for microscope. Through that lens, the ‘whole’ of our lives is reduced to finite snippets—our memories—which are pinpoints of experience along the continuum of our lifetimes.
Our memories mark who we were, are, and will one day become. We examine, mark and measure our lives through our memories, those snippets of experience, and that is what this novel is, and all novels, and films, paintings, songs, poetry, dance—
They’re all just snippets of experience: points of light on the endless continuum of that thing we call Life; just tiny bright lights that ask us to spare a moment and consider them for what they are; asking us to pay our dime, and enjoy the show.