My Hanukkah gift to the world

What were you doing on July 18, 2001? On that day, according to my possibly apocryphal records, I started writing a novel called Analog that I just finished, literally, about five minutes ago.

Perhaps it's a small thing, in these strange times. But it's always been my dream to write a novel, and then do something with it, so there you go: tonight, one guy in Philly is slightly closer to achieving his lifelong dream. Maybe you find that exciting, I don't know.

Now, it's hardly a perfect work, and I sincerely hope that it doesn't end up being the best thing I ever write. If anyone ever reads it, they will surely have all kinds of comments/critiques/suggestions/complaints that they will ask me to address, and I will be forced to work on it some more. I will be happy to do so (particularly if I'm getting paid). So what I mean by "finished" is that I've gone quite literally as far as I can go with this thing by myself. In fact, speaking bluntly, I'm sick to death of the sight of it. I leave it now in the hands of anyone kind enough to take the time to check it out.

I'm being realistic about this. I have not quit my job in anticipation of a lucrative novelist career. I have not gone out and bought a bunch of cars and boats in anticipation of giant royalty checks. I am still a long way from actually doing anything with this thing. I am fully prepared for it to never be anything more than some files on my hard drive. I am, indeed, fully prepared for my friends to read it, and then sit me down and calmly explain that I am the worst writer they have ever seen, and that I should smash my laptop with a hammer and never put any of my diseased, inane thoughts to paper again. Just know that, without exaggeration, this was something that I needed to do, something that I would always regret if I never did, and that, in various subtle and perhaps not-so-subtle ways, I believe that I will be a better person from here on out, because I finally got this thing out of me. I would much rather write a bad novel than a nonexistent novel.

So now I get to take a break from writing for a little while, as I search for interested parties to tell me how great my book is. It's worth noting that for the past few weeks, I have blown off going to the gym, because (a) I've been holiday shopping literally every night after work and (b) I've been working on this book every night too. So, next time you see me and take note of my grotesque obesity, just know that I've suffered for my art.

[NOTE: Perhaps soon I will address the sudden loss of A.I. (maybe even in a melodramatic essay that compares his career to that of Superchunk or Weezer or some damn thing) but I just can't handle it right now.]

[OTHER NOTE: For those who are interested, here's all the all-instrumental music I've been listening to over the past few weeks as I've done the final edits: Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Beethoven, all six Star Wars soundtracks, Shark Quest, Brand X.]

[OTHER OTHER NOTE: Shortly after posting this at 1:10 AM, I saw that the previous post - which has gone uncommented-upon since August - has a comment from an anonymous poster dated just eleven hours ago, saying that they "miss" my writing. What an astounding coincidence! Maybe they knew, just knew, that I would return tonight. I'd like to imagine that the comment is from Minka Kelly, who, when not playing the impossibly hot cheerleader on Friday Night Lights, constantly reads and rereads her tear-stained Phillies Diary printouts and draws hearts around my name in a spiral notebook. On the other hand, it was almost certainly my idiot brother.]