It’s fairly impossible at times for me to believe that after more than a decade working on The Metropolis Case, it’s going to be published in exactly two weeks. Although I’m more than pleased that it’s happening, and even ecstatic when I consider the many things could have gone wrong but did not, I’m trying to keep my expectations low; after all, this is a debut novel — let’s hope the first of many? — and while I (like every other writer who’s ever been in my position, I’m sure) think it should be reviewed and admired by many, I understand that the landscape is exceedingly crowded with novels vying for people’s attention, not to mention all of the other forms of entertainment with which we are all constantly bludgeoned in the modern era. Moreover, some percentages of people are going to pick it up and be unmoved; they will think to themselves, “whatever, this is B.S., I would rather be reading something by ___ or playing Wii or watching television or walking along the river.” Which is only reasonable; it’s something we all do, after all.
When I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown thinking about this stuff (not really, of course, but just a little), it helps to remember the many things I love in the natural world — such as the ferns and the moss I saw over the weekend growing between the bricks, or even the bricks themselves — that are completely ambivalent (and I say this because I always imagine them having some form of consciousness, despite no scientific evidence of such) about the success or failure of the book, i.e., they exist for reasons that have nothing to do with art or writing.
The December moss remained bright green after the rains of Sunday afternoon; it’s now frozen under the snow, where it will sleep until the spring.
