This has been a tough birthday. Over the last week, as I approached and crossed the landing threshold of thirty years old, I got one nasty surprise after another.

Work projects, personal projects, even my cherished first book all suffered major failures within the course of a brutal seven days.

Confidentiality agreements are keeping me from spilling the juiciest gossip, but you can imagine the rejections that happen to a writer, a manager, and a games developer. I got one of each, every two days last week.

Facing up to failure has become familiar; a lot of what I’ve done in my life simply doesn’t work. The stuff I build often flames out in glorious sparks and choking smoke; that’s been my world. I’ve abandoned ideas, code, books, projects and dreams on the side of the road like blown tires shucked off an eighteen-wheeler.

There have been successes, but in terms of mindshare, I simply find failures more interesting. Success doesn’t need a blog post. I think failure does, and here, at thirty years old, I want to talk about mine.

These are personal stories that I’m couching in some rules I’ve learned; I figure there’s enough here for a few days worth of posts; I figured we’d start with my most recent, most epic failure, featuring me, arterial spray, and my breakfast.
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