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I want to make it clear: This decision was, as all of my decisions are, founded entirely in the selflessness that is my personal hallmark, my stock in trade. I believe there is a school of thought that suggests that writing in general, and the writing of novels specifically, is something of an egomaniacal practice, grounded as it is in the (often baseless) belief that one has something truly worthwhile to say. But although that brand of arrogance surely motivates some writers — for instance, Chris Braak, who is the worst — such is not the case in my own, uh, case.

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.