I was thumbing through the calendar, hoping to create some “countdown” dates for my upcoming novel, Unexpected Rain, and I discovered that today it’s 42 days from release.
Of course, countdown numbers are all arbitrary anyway, aren’t they? What was I hoping for? 50 days from release, 30 days from release – you know, nice round numbers. But here it is before me: a number that means something. A number that means … well, it’s the answer to life, the universe, and everything!
I have a lot of sci-fi heroes, but I’m afraid they all have to move over when it comes down to it, because Douglas Adams is The Author. You know. The. Author. The one that made me want to be a writer. I didn’t have the fortune of meeting him in person and being inspired, as Neil Gaiman did at the age of 22, but when I was a teenager, I consumed his work voraciously. Over and over again. And later as an adult. Over and over again.
And since I missed Douglas Adams’s birthday a couple weeks ago, this seems like an opportune time to celebrate the influence DNA had on my path to becoming a writer. I shall do so in two ways:
First, I’m donating 42 GBP to DNA’s favorite non-profit, Save the Rhino. I was going to do it in USD but the form only accepts GBP and I’m not going to sit here and do a bunch of currency math like some accountant.
Second, I will celebrate with the grand Vogon tradition of poetry. (Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe.) Strap yourselves into the Poetry Appreciation chairs and we’ll begin with a miserable little piece I concocted to celebrate the last 42 days before I mutate into a Published Novelist.
My darlsenpoof, you strope me
With unrellefant peietry
That sprudles from the plast of your woosuff,
With your hangelious thrush of kilf
And shuftles hooptiously
Down to the gobberwarts,
On through until reaching the bits that were disintegrated.
That’s the worst I can do, I’m afraid. I’ll defer to Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz for an example of truly horrific poetry, in case you’re not yet jibbering:
“Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts
With my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!”
- exsqueezed from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams
If you’re still conscious, then I weep for you, because you’re no doubt in agonizing pain. If I had an airlock, I’d throw you out of it and release you from your dolor.
But I don’t have an airlock. All I have is this not-very-funny-but-still-adventurous sci-fi murder mystery coming out in 42 days. And if you don’t pre-order it, I’m going to recite more Vogon poetry at you.