I have, however, been really, really busy lately. So here: I present to you the first three chapters of my recent NaNo attempt. That's right.
Prologue
Whenever someone sits down to write a book it is with an idea in mind of one sort or another, and even though he (being someone) may sit down with the idea of the next Great American Novel in mind, he shall be hard pressed to do anything without a title to his future masterpiece. It is the title which the author fears the most, for it is never something which comes easy—and with no title, how is the author to claim the work as his own? Surely not by pointing to it and saying “This is my book and I wrote it,” because “my book” is a poor title for a story and really, it shan't be of any use to him on account of some other bloke being able to say the same thing.
“Why sir,” I hear you say, “The author need merely to append his name and the date to his book and this shall most assuredly solve the problem.”
Indeed it might, good lady, but then what good is the author's name on something that has no title? The book must be able to be referred to with a pithy name—something like “The Black Cat 'pon my Keyboard” by such-and-such. Books, like land, require titles for ownership to be established—and the real power of a title is the power it gives the author to name his book any old thing so long as he is the one who knows what it means. It helps if the title has nothing whatsoever to do with the book, because then the author can be assured that he will be the only one who knows that “The Black Cat 'pon my Keyboard” means that whilst the author was writing his brilliant introduction to his brilliant book the cat jumped on his desk and proceeded to attempt to write the book for the author.
Incidentally, the name of this book will have nothing to do with black cats of any sort, even though they have seen fit to place themselves upon the keyboard.
This book does not currently even have a title, as I haven't decided whether or not it is the sort of thing I'd like to claim ownership of—being unwritten, I may decide that it is no good, and toss it out of a window once I figure out the logistics of tossing a piece of data out a window. Perhaps I shall print it out first, though as I've no printer handy I think it might be a difficult task. Most assuredly I could copy the whole thing down in a notebook and then throw it out (I have both a notebook and a pen handy), but that is more effort than I am currently willing to spend on acts of violence against my own literature.
A warning: Being largely a novel written by the seat of my trousers (though as the weather is not hot today I am wearing shorts instead of trousers) I daresay that currently I make no claim as to the coherency of the novel or it making any sense. As things often do, it is merely an idea which I am (for one reason or another) attempting to give vibrancy and life, which we can promptly disregard once the actual thing gets moving. I should also warn you that there may be bits of the book which have offensive bits in them (mostly discussions on beards, noses, and button-holes which I may or may not seek to include) which the discerning reader will perhaps wish to pass over in the hopes that their virtue will not be sullied by something as uncouth as will be seen (possibly) in the book.
That's too bad, really. I personally look forward to the naughty bits (especially the discussion of button-holes, which Sterne may have been to cowardly to include, but I shall not fear), but then again they may not happen and then you'd have put down this lovely novel for nothing; this would not only cause no small amount of embarrassment on your part for acting too impulsively, but you might also be stricken with the desire not to purchase the book, and then I should be out of a job (or at least money for the bus).
Perhaps that is enough speaking for now, but I should remind you that I, and only I, know the title of the book's origin and meaning. So don't forget this is all mine.
Chapter 1
Every good story starts in the beginning, but a truly impressive story can skip right to the end and then go from there.
“One day,” Marvin said, throwing an arm around Laura's shoulder and giving her a kiss, “You're going to have to tell me where you found that rubber chicken.”
Laura laughed, a real honest-to-God laugh that rebounded through the ruins of the castle and echoed through the mountainside. “Why, I always had the chicken. I told you that years ago, but you never believed me.”
The two heroes wound their way through the ruined doorway and were surprised to see the wizened old face of the Wizard peering out from the backseat of Marvin's car.
“I don't suppose you could give me a ride into town, could you?”
“Isn't that how this all started?” Marvin said, in a manner that was by no means contrived to give the author an excuse to go back to the beginning of the story.
“I don't remember, actually.” The Wizard said. “I'm afraid that last fight caused a bit of damage to the old noggin. Everything before the last couple of weeks has gone a bit foggy.”
“Well,” Laura said, giving a stretch as she settled into the passenger seat, “I don't suppose it was that important anyway.”
Chapter 2
The sound of an alarm so early in the morning was highly confusing to Marvin, mostly as he didn't have any reason to be awake in the mornings, choosing instead the route of waking up 'at some point,' which usually was around eleven. It was a good system, made better by the freedom it gave Marvin to do things such as staying up all night fooling around with his girlfriend.
Something about that train of thought poked at the back of his mind, and Marvin became aware that he was far from being alone in his bed. In fact, the bed was being shared with the aforementioned girlfriend, who Marvin supposed he must have spent all of the previous night fooling around with. He was partially accurate in his assessment (in reality, they'd watched a movie and fallen asleep).
The mystery of the alarm solved itself with surprising speed.
