Anyway. Today is the 10th anniversary of Vallvi—the craziest, longest, densest, most populous, and most personal book I ever wrote (pending the upcoming Heaven Park, which will beat it in all those areas).
Vallvi is also my least-read novel. And it hasn't aged well. I would never reissue it today without substantial changes to mitigate my ignorance, and still I fear it would go bad again in another ten years. In spite of that, I'm fonder of it than I am of later mistakes. That's because Vallvi was my first time addressing (albeit clumsily) questions that have haunted me for a long time: Gender. (My) masculinity. (My) sexuality. Emasculation. Self-destruction.
I was 29. I am 40 now, and I'm still figuring this shit out. I'm beginning to accept that there'll be no big epiphany at the end of the journey, so I might as well enjoy it.
Heaven Park, I'm afraid, won't contain any answers either. But it will hopefully touch more people, and provide bigger, better-aimed laughs.