I dig my way up through the soil, silently pleading the night to cover my escape. As I break the surface, I hold my breath, looking around in dread for my pursuers.
A moment goes by, eons in the passing, and my now ancient breath exhales past my lips.
I have done it.
A repress the urge to laugh loud and long. In turn, I repress the repression and let my laughter soar free. I have done it! I beat them! I outwitted the NaNoWriMo druids!
They sought to end me, cutting me down piecemeal by demands of words, every day, another 1,667 words, never ending, always there, breathing their bitter incantations down my neck. And oh, they thought they had me, but in the end, it is I who have succeeded.
Such a flurry of words did I outpour that they backed away in awe and terror. Content to observe from outside my ramshackle little cabin, they saw the words pile higher around me. For thirty days, they watched, until the words had massed around me in such volume that I must surely be dead, sacrificed to the primeval gods of story.
But as I wrote, I also dug, making for myself a tunnel through the cool loam. And when these thirty days had passed, I ensconced myself there, with 50,000 words piled atop me like a verbal tombstone.
Oh, you should have checked, foolish NaNoWriMo druids. You should have made sure that I was finished, but you trusted too much to your own druidic power. And it will be your undoing.
For you thought me dead, my words denied the locomotion of tongue or pen. But you were wrong. My words are not immobile, they are gathering. To war! To war!
And there will be more. Though you thought to destroy me, you have give me the greatest weapon any man could ever have. I can now write more than I ever thought I could. And it’s all thanks to you.
This novel shall not lie unfinished, like so many others. And you have destroyed so many others. Dickens’ own unfinished symphony cries out in accusation to you. The Mystery of Edwin Drood was but a nod in your direction, “Drood” being so close to “Druid”. He saw you coming, and could not stop you, but sought to warn us. I have heeded his warning. And I shall not be caught unprepared.
My novel shall be completed, and then your doom shall fall!
* * *
And now that I believe I’ve decried the druids enough, a few words for you, gentle reader.
If you enjoy hearing me talk like a crazy person, please subscribe so you can be kept informed about the state of my book-to-be.
The working title (which I’m not very attached to, and may throw off a cliff if I find one better) is Our Numbers Many, Our Years Few.
See? Blech. Hopefully I’ll find something better.
Anyway, once I’ve finished writing it and given it at least one or two good edits, I’m going to shop it around to traditional publishers first, see if I can get it published that way. If that falls through, then I will self-publish it as an e-book.
If this happens, I will inevitably starve to death.
Unless you help! Yes, you!
I’m going to be posting some stuff on here about the book. Probably some excerpts, and probably not summaries, because I’m rubbish at those.
And if you read those and think, “Oy, this is actually good!” then tell people! Then, when the day of publishing draws nigh, tell them again!
This works out well for you, too. You know all those smug people walking around telling you how they read such-and-such a book before you did? Well, this is your chance to be that person first. Think how silly they’ll look when they try to tell you about this great new book they found when you get to tell them, “I supported that author when he was STARVING in a GUTTER, writing manuscripts on OLD KLEENEX!”
Remember, it’s not about me. It’s about you feeling sooooooo superior to everyone else.
(Author’s Note: I am not starving in a gutter, but if it helps you feel more charitable, by all means hold on to that mental image.)