It was ever my intention to do everything in November EXCEPT work on a novel, thus expressing my disdain for and objection to National Novel Writing Month and the many, many, MANY writers collectively demonstrating that writing novels isn’t especially difficult. Of the variety of categories of people that I hate (including: people who stand in middle of the aisle at the grocery store, people who like Glee, Neil Labutte, people who like plays by Neil Labutte, and pretty much anyone who’s ever left a comment on Comics Alliance) “people who do the same things that I do” has got to be at least number 3 on the list.
However, I have been provoked — PROVOKED BEYOND ANY REASONABLE MEASURE — by Moff’s vile aspersions against me.
Though his article was confused, rambling, plotted poorly and contains no interesting characters or worthwhile turns of phrase to speak of — though it was, in other words, clearly written by a drunk and a Communist — the INTENT of that slobbering pastiche of inveterate foolishness was absolutely plain: calumny. It is Moff’s intention to write a novel SOLELY FOR THE PURPOSE of perpetrating a calumny against me. ME! BRAAK!
This cannot stand (obviously), and so I, too, have determined to participate in National Novel Writing Month (or “NaNoWriMo,” for the syllablicly-impaired). Like the mighty Hare, leaving the clumsy and stupid tortoise in its wake, like Goliath smashing David with his mighty hammer and giving lie to that king’s misguided heroism, so it is the case that I will DESTROY MOFF UTTERLY, leaving behind nothing but a mad and gibbering simpleton with no prospects in life but a possible future as some kind of professional stick-chewer, or somehting.
You’re wondering, no doubt, how anyone could tell the difference between the broken husk of a man that Moff will be from the broken husk of a man that he is now, and the answer is obviously YOU WON’T. But I will be able to tell, and things that are important to me are the only things that matter to me.
You’re probably also wondering if maybe I made the wrong choice by comparing myself to the Hare or to Goliath, when in the stories about those respectable characters they were actually losers, and the response to that is: yes, in the STORIES. In FICTION the Hare was beaten by the Tortoise, and it is precisely there that Moff’s imagined victory lies: in a fantasy told by the weak to console themselves in the face of their omnipresent and crushing defeats.
THAT IS YOUR FUTURE, MOFF.