What It Means

I'm still the author of How to Dodge a Cannonball, a satire about the first U.S. civil war. Since my relationship with the topic and genre is self-evident, I’ll talk about my relationship with the book. And, for one night only, the career side of this nonsense.

Yesterday

Think 2003 or so. I’m bad with dates, but Iraq was on fire. Mom and I, fresh from a handicap match loss against the champ, discussed the future. I didn’t think it existed at the time, but I already had a gambler’s mentality.

“What do you want to be?”

“Batman.”

Let’s pretend I said a writer. Much better story. I was at least twelve, which makes “Batman” less cute and more insane.

We spent that summer in JesusTown, Jamaica, to enable my Bat-training. Or to duck rematches with Dad. Or for last-call face time with Grandma. The further out you get from these things, the more self-serving the details become. Personally, I don’t trust any story that can vote.

I’d gleaned, from a handful of book fairs, that reading was essential to Bat-training. Especially being seen. I hauled a collection of impressive-looking books I intended to tackle after defeating the Elite Four. Wonderful fashion accessories. I made sure that my sister could see a stylish cover on the plane. The man on it danced some kind of manic white jig, and that seemed like art.

“What’s that?” she eventually volunteered. The crown of sole EQ heir sat heavy, but she bore it with grace.

“A novel,” I said, as if she hadn’t heard of such vaunted things. “Catch-22.”

“Is it good?”

“I don’t know yet.” I chafed under observation. I hadn’t even skimmed the back of the brick. Now I had to read the fucking thing, or I’d be a poser. Batman wasn’t a poser. Unless a secret identity counted as posing. Was Batman a poser? My world collapsed.

Miraculously, I finished the book. Again. And again. And—

Also Yesterday, But Less So

Two years out.

In fiction, the debut novel totalizes. Forget your birth, or your prophet’s birth, or that fun party before your divorce. Only the pub date matters. You might remember your child’s birthday, if they’re loud about it. But your mind will be with Barnes & Noble.

Two years out.

I flipped my phone. The screen had endured poor ramp skills. The date might look different in landscape view, with less cracks. The email spun around indecisively, but nothing changed. I had two years to contemplate infinity. Or rot.

My Bat-training kicked in. Under firm emotional control, I explained my perspective to my agent, friends, sister, and several patient vagrants.

I’m hot now. I’ve never been hot. I don’t understand what makes people hot. It might never happen again. What do I do for two years? Watch my dream die? Shop for rope?

“Just chill. Can I have a dollar?”

I handed my sister a dollar. But chilling was off the table. The dead chilled. I’d tracked Dayle lifespans, and the numbers looked wretched. Only the evil seemed to live forever, and I didn't aspire to become champion. My balanced, healthy brain fired on all cylinders over 36 hours. Then I turned in early.

What do you do for two years?

I could chill. See the country. Remarry. See the world. Sort out the family drama.  Be a better teacher. Be a better date. Read Shakespeare for fun instead of content. Get a dog. Try another therapist. Fix my shoulder. Finish Cyberpunk 2077 without switching characters. Land a heelflip on my legs instead of my skull. Chill.

I snorted. Figuratively—I really stared at an uneven ceiling. Snorting’s a better story cue. I couldn’t chill. I was barely a Robin, let alone a Nightwing. My training wasn’t finished.

That line's more literal. For the prior two years, I’d ruminated on the impact of Everything Abridged. In public, I focused on critics liking it, along with my three established fans. The book had formalist achievements, and short stories sell less. Scientists call this phenomenon “cope.” Honestly, cope probably helps one stay balanced. I’m not good at cope. Reality crashed on my couch and refused to leave.

I knew the problem. I’d come out of nowhere, surfing the corpse of the mayor’s dignity. Flashy and fun, but lacking substance. I didn’t have the luck or skin to get by without substance. With the collection, I’d paid for a half-decade of chilling. The zombie-walk from bar to bar, ranting about the death and divorce that hits every adult on Gaia. But they’d found me. Before that, I’d assumed I was special. A classic mistake among Jamaican princes. Maybe sons in general.

My training wasn’t finished. I wasn't a masterwork clown. One of the best. Flashy and buzzy and oracle-approved meant nothing. Only best. My dues were an empty shoebox.

The League of Shadows–I think balanced people call it luck–was merciful. Very merciful. I had a slot with the empire’s best comedy site. And another with the one flatscans called the best. And traction on that newsletter farm, which likely had a year or two before collapsing. A chance to reverse the zombie years.

Two years out. I might need more time.

Yesterday, But Less Yesterday than the First Two Yesterdays

I wrote a lot.

Today, But Yesterday in Literal Terms

“That sounds more like Bane,” my dickhead friend noted. Like most Animation Society alumni, we had a ramen spot. I bristled at the comment. I’d emerged for air, and this was my reward?

“It’s Batman.”

“Training in a lightless cave for revenge. A pro-wrestling fixation. A weird voice. That’s Bane.”

Nonsense. Somehow, two decades didn’t mean someone got you. My desk wasn’t a lightless cave. The LED lamps changed colors. I could project a personal disco. I never did, but it was an option.

“I’ve barely seen you,” he added.

Clearly wrong. He’d seen me more than almost anyone else. Even my last partner. I explained the importance of harvesting substance, and he nodded along. Another member of the League of Shadows. I’d completed a perfectly sane two years chained to my keyboard.

Did I find substance? Fuck if I know. The whole scheme reeks of nonsense. "Rabbit Run" is tattooed on my age bracket's brain. Or just mine. This could be one long act of creative masochism.

But I think this book deserved it. How to Dodge a Cannonball holds every worthwhile thought I have. On who we are and why. It’s the purest vein of comedy in my head, and a not-so-subtle tribute to the book that put it there. I wanted to show Mom, but I can't. I never can. We're still here. If a word of high-concept graffiti or cursed cultural anthropology or Joestar jokes or advertising autopsy or midtown pandering reached you, it’s worth your time.

Give it a shot.