I am about to embark on something crazy. This, however, seems alarmingly normal for this particular year. This year is coming in hot with tires screeching on two wheels.

Let’s review the highlights-or lowlights depending on perspective. I got gay divorced. The person I’ve shared my home and heart with for seven years ended our relationship in spectacular fashion-spectacular in the sense that a tire blow-out at seventy miles per hour on a crowded highway can be. The blowout was complete with anti-depressants and therapy, which in turn led to a break with my family. I sold or donated all my shit. What remained could be wedged into a compact car, with a cat sans owner due to gay divorce. I drove 2000 miles to a place that I knew wouldn’t be my home and where I knew no one, but not before I started a relationship with someone-although so lovely-who was objectively the least good option available on this planet due to some emotional carnage regarding the gay divorce. Did I mention she is in the place I left? Yeah. Then I got religion. And some other spiritual crap that, if foretold twelve months ago, would have caused beer to erupt from my mouth due to my uncontrollable scoffing.

All of this makes the thought of writing a novel in 30 days, well, approachable. The book is going to be about this year, because, jeebus, did you read that massive paragraph? I edited out stuff, lots of stuff, like when I played my first gig on an instrument I had played for two months. Maybe I won’t finish-a very plausible out come given how busy November is for me. Maybe I will. Maybe you can read it. Maybe I will be too mortified by it to let you read it. Maybe some of the people who are in it will be too mortified for you to read it. Ask me in 30 days.