This summer I convinced my friend Greg to enter the annual 3-Day Novel Contest. We killed ourselves for 72 hours and wrote the thing together from opposite sides of the country. It was about Hugo and Darcie and their parallel lives in insomnia. When the last word was written, I had to pace the train tracks because I was too high on it all to talk to my family. The judges overlooked dear Darcie and Hugo (fools), but I remain deeply grateful that Greg held my hand as we stepped into the fiction ring. He's an amazing writer.
And yesterday was his birthday.
Greg: Sorry these are a day late, but can you spot yourself in the pictures?
A German tourist took them after the Festival of Light this summer. The fireworks had just finished dumping their smoke on Vancouverites, and I stood up to call you in Fredericton. I have a habit of wandering around while I'm on the phone, as you can see. The German asked if I was a dancer, but as you know, I'm just a hippie.
Happy Birthday, friend.
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