There. I said it. The elevator pitch for my novel. That starts at midnight tomorrow (Friday, 12 am CST) for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).

Ulysses. Set in the suburbs. My shameless aping of Joyce’s hyper-dense love letter to Dublin, an unfaithful wife, and a life of the mind.

What happens when a middle-aged man rolls out of bed, goes to work, comes home and goes back to bed? What does he read? What does he think about? What the fuck am I thinking? No idea.

I just know that NaNoWriMo forces participants to make the worst kind of vow. A commitment to discipline. A promise to spread the briliiance over 30 days.  

In reality, taking the approach of writing a picaresuqe, might serve a bigger purpose.  I’ve been dragging pieces of stories around in my mind for the last 25 years. Remnants of uncompleted stuff from college. A setting. A dialogue snatch overheard on an airplane.  And realistically, all those pieces are taking up room that needs to be cleared out.

I’ll be trying something equally ambitious here … blogging the experience. It’s going to be a wretched display of self-loathing and overinflated sense of the Self. Possibly with footnotes.

Watch what happens.

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