God that sentence feels good. It also feels fake and stupid. Some of you have been reading this blog for a large chunk of your life. God, just fucking thank you for being here. The Surfing Pizza, your friendly neighborhood blogger who writes about how Nintendo and Teddy Ruxpin made them warped as a kid, is getting published by Unsolicited Press, a billion-ass years from now, in summer 2022.
My kids grew up really fast. Baby to toddler goes by in about three minutes. I suppose my book will grow up fast, too. Entitled GOOD ROCKS, it is named for the good rocks we would find in our backyard whenever we needed a tombstone to mark the burial plots of my dead pet mice.
It’s a journey from my backyard as a child to my backyard as an adult, as I experiment with how to grow grass in my dirt yard. Along the way I contextualize just what random pieces of pop culture, such as Nintendo and Muppet Babies and Taco Bell, mean in a world where I have grown up, lost my mother, had kids of my own, and survived something. Survived what? I don’t know, but it sure feels like I have.
It’s my fucking writing! It’s great! Can you tell I’m practicing talking about it? It is a very strange feeling to accomplish something you have always wanted, because I’m not sure I have accomplished anything at all.
Step zero is to get past my self-doubt, insecurties, and ambivalence. Step zero is just stupid and omnipresent. Step zero is the movie Groundhog Day. I just wake up here.
Step one is to learn the craft: “to get good.” Like getting good at a video game, the goal is to beat the level, beat the game, and beat my own eventual boredom with it. I have become bored with it over and over, and yet it’s Super Mario Brothers. I’ll never stop playing it. It’s just fused to my psyche.
Step two is write the book. It’s abstract and bewildering, burrowing blindly through a tunnel until you get out on the other side, unsure if this is the right side, or if I was supposed to end up somewhere else.
Step three is find a publisher. It seems like it won’t happen, and it probably doesn’t happen, and yet it did happen. Then Groundhog Day happens and I wake up again at step zero. Have I progressed at all? Have I accomplished anything?
A few years ago, I thought I was done writing. I had not written in a long time. Of course, I had two kids under age two. I don’t think anyone writes their masterpiece in this stage of life. Still, I was not creating anything. I felt dull. Then a strange combination of things happened.
I read Stephen King’s IT, which is also an intertwining of childhood and adulthood stories, except with a sewer murder clown. I thought, well I could do this, except without the clown.
My sister bought my son a Teddy Ruxpin for Christmas, to tease me about my lifelong lament that I never got one as a kid. I decided to blog about it.
My internet friend and fellow blogger, who stops writing as often as I do, http://williambrucewest.com/, tweeted, “The Surfing Pizza is back!” That made me feel really good. Like good enough to write another thing.
Tell writers you care, it might lead them on a path to write an entire book, accidentally. Thanks, Will. YOU should read his blog. He writes with a hilarious frustration at pop culture.
This gigantic, monumental, abstract journey, that previously eluded me, came together from a murder clown, my sister teasing me, and a tweet. Just sharing the secret, in case you need it.
What’s next? Revision, editing, continuing to round up writers on the internet and convince them to write about Taco Bell, as part of my evil plan. Of course, I’m going to keep writing here. Let it be known, that the day after I announced my book, I decided to get Halloween donuts.
Krispy Kreme has a Halloween Dozen pack. They have names. One of them is named Slimon, and when a publisher accepts your book, it just feels like a good day for a goddamn Slimon. When I opened the box, I said “OH MY GOD THEY’RE BEAUTIFUL.”
Slimon was very delicious. He also hurt my stomach because he is so cloyingly sweet and bright green. This is just the base nature of Halloween donuts. My daughter chose one of the boring sprinkle donuts, but I also felt relief that she wasn’t eating “my good ones.” Later, I will devour Mumford and Hypno-Henry, and feel fucking fantastic at eating 1200 calories worth of donuts. YOLO.