Saturday, 3 January 2009


I was lying in bed this morning, thinking about mortality and what a load of shit cryogenic freezing is, and I wonder if Walt Disney really did freeze himself, and isn't that a funny thing, how we must always concoct a darker side to make a person more human, when I decided I'd like to write a novel someday.

I know, you're thinking, "HAHAHHAHA yeah right".
But I am right.

I have always written prose and poetry, but I believe I have enough life experience under my belt, finally, to start something truly monumental. Plus, now I've got the time and energy to devote to writing, as it is just about the only creative outlet I can still indulge in. Thank you, cancer.

All of this novel nonsense comes with a sense of added urgency. I am afraid I will die with my millions of genius thoughts before I express them- imagine, everything gone in an instant. I figure, if worst comes to absolute worst and my health starts deteriorating, I'll still have maybe a year or so before cancer kills me. I can write a novel in a year. I can write, write, write. It's just about the only thing I have left.

My initial plot and character outlines are in no way related to cancer. I've found a rather clever way to use my experience with illness, both mental and physical, without the story becoming too autobiographical. So far I've been obsessed with fleshing out the details. Everything is coming together with more ease than anything I've ever written.

there is a perfect moment for everything, I suppose.

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