Happy Birthday, You Dead Baby
In other news, I just discovered that my first serious attempt at fiction writing, an epic scifi-fantasy novel with the much maligned title “The Guardians” celebrated its 9th birthday this week. I totally forgot about it. I’m such a bad father.
To some extent, I think novels are like girlfriends. You never quite get over the first one (even if she made you look bad after you broke up, and was inconsiderate of your needs, and never did anything to help you just dragged you down all the time (I’m talking about the book, actually)).
Happy Birthday Voice, Angy, Chrysta, Stimson, and all the rest. Maybe someday we’ll find a home for you, but in the meantime, get back in the basement and stay there.