(I have published this piece from Moff, of Moff’s Law Fame; I have done this because I AM NOT AFRAID OF HIM.)
I remembered, at about 1:07 p.m. on Thursday the 1st that November is National Novel Writing Month, and that in recent weeks I had entertained the notion of officially participating this year for the very first time. And so it came to pass that at about 1:08 p.m. on Thursday the 1st, I decided to do so.
No, I am writing my National Novel simply because I want to give something unequivocally beautiful to the world, even if the world, to be frank, has not done anything I recall to particularly deserve it. I guess poutine, maybe; poutine is pretty good. But it is mostly confined to Canada, which seems to me to be proof of a God with a divinely wry sense of humor. In any case, I don’t know that even poutine can compensate for having to share the universe with Chris Braak, who is a blemish.
It isn’t going to be easy to write this novel. I’ll confess straight out that I’m already about 1,700 words behind, on account of having not written anything yesterday, since I decided to participate at the thirteenth hour — which is, of course, two hours later than the eleventh hour, which is proverbially late. I am not concerned, however. Because I am like the Juggernaut of yore. Not the X-Men villain, but the original one. I am like it in that I have wheels — oh, yes, I have wheels; it wasn’t cheap, but it was worth it — and I crush my Hindu worshipers beneath them. It’s not an anti-Hindu thing; they’re just who happen to be there; I would crush others — for example, Chris Braak, whom I am going to crush first metaphorically, by writing a better novel than he ever could, and second literally, by crushing him with my wheels.
To the best of my knowledge, Chris Braak is not a Hindu, which proves it’s not an anti-Hindu thing.
So I must begin, forthwith. Next Friday I will tantalize you with details about my National Novel In-Progress, here on this blog, so have spare pants handy. In the meantime, to my friend and rival and the single greatest empirically detectable refutation of the theory of evolution, Chris Braak, I say: Good luck to you, sir. I mean, good luck in finding a sufficiently dull spoon with which to stab out your own brains until you are dead, because that will surely be less painful than seeing how astonishingly groundbreaking and well-written my novel is, especially compared with yours.
AND SO IT BEGINS.