What the hell happened to December?  Seriously, what happened?  One minute, I was shoving an uncarved pumpkin onto my front step and pretending it was a deliberate Halloween decoration.  The next thing I know, it’s Christmas Eve, and the pumpkin is half-frozen, half-shriveled, looking like it’s experiencing the same existential crisis we all are this time of year.  December didn’t happen-it sprinted past me like an illegal alien trying to get out of the US by January 20th.

And now here I am, no presents wrapped, no tree fully decorated (unless you count the pathetic attempt of a tinsel garland I draped across it like a lazy toga), and absolutely no clue where this month went.  I know I’m not alone in this.  December plays us all like amateurs every year.  But this time, I have a solid excuse – or at least I’m calling it solid.

You see, dear reader, I’ve had my head so far buried in this book I’m trying to get into selling shape that time has become little more than a suggestion, like expiration dates on prescription meds.  Each day blurs into the next – words, edits, caffeine, Benzedrine, absinthe, repeat.  Somewhere along the way, I apparently forgot that there’s an entire world out there demanding responsible behaviors, like buying Christmas gifts or paying attention to dates on a calendar.  I’m reminded one cannot go about freelancing through life like it’s an open-mic night.  If you haven’t tried writing a book while the world insists on going about its business, I suggest that you don’t.  It’s not that it’s hard (though it absolutely is), it’s that the sheer mental consumption of it warps everything else.  Time ceases to9 flow like a gentle stream and starts spinning like a manic record on loop.  “December,” you say?  I barely knew her.

In fairness, it doesn’t help anything living in California at Christmastime.  The whole rest of the world (but certainly anything north and east of here) gets four distinct seasons, three months each.  There is never any question of what time of the year it is.  Not so in California.  Here, we only have two seasons, and if you want to get existentially technical about it, we have one season and one privation: things are either Hotter Than Hell, or they are Not.  From Cinco de Mayo until Halloween, it is Hotter Than Hell.  From Guy Fawkes Day until Cinco de Mayo, it is Not.  Winter kicks in the fucking door when it arrives in the rest of the world.  Here, we don’t even get a gentle tap on the shoulder.  If Winter does show up here, he doesn’t want anybody to know about it.

I know this sounds like some kind of justification for procrastination (it is), but this book I’m writing?  Again, it will have been worth it.  And if I’m not forgiven for any holiday failings, I’ll just blame the pumpkin.  It’s still sitting out there like a sad squash of shame, and honestly, it deserves it.

Merry Christmas, dear reader.

N.P.: “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” – Gary Hoey