I turned 41 on Saturday.
There's a tendency towards self-mythologizing on blogs. Online in general, really. Most people make a beautiful lie of their lives on Facebook, smoothing the rough edges of doubt and inconvenient unpleasantness until they've created a placid persona for public consumption. The poets and the dramatic go the other route, mythologizing their flaws and cruelties into a towering monstrosity, and they weep that they love no one enough to curb their narcissism. I'm guilty of both.
I also have a terrible tendency towards self-pity, and I've decided I'm tired of it. So, my "new year's" resolution, if you will, is that I will no longer indulge in that least pleasurable of all vices. So, to repeat, I turned 41, and let me tell you, without glossing over anything, that I am a lucky son of a bitch. I have somehow not managed to sabotage or destroy myself, despite my best efforts. I am better looking and healthier than I have in years. I am working towards the things that I love everyday, and I am still blessed by true friends and a wife whom I love and who loves me in return.
One of my blessings is this, right here: my first story publication in twenty years. It's at a lovely magazine called Devilfish Review. I'm really proud of the story, and if you haven't read it already, please go check it out, and then stick around and read the rest of the stories, because there are some quite good ones there. Thanks for reading, and if you've come here from Devilfish, welcome. Please stay awhile, and make yourself at home.