Let me preface this by saying that I'm an awful person worthy of your scorn.

Fuck national novel writing month.

Why do I say this? Because nothing good can conceivably come of it. First of all, Chyld is involved, and his involvement sullies everything that it touches. Like an octopus astride the world, a dirty, dirty octopus. Its' tentacles reaching, claiming, erotically penetrating... Hem. You see how Chyld attempts to distract me with his telepathicly arousing fantasies of tentacle rape?

But it is clearly the idiocy of the enterprise that has attracted Chyld. Believe me dear reader, NANOWRIMO does not require Chyld to be a foolish endeavour. It does that on its own.

First of all, let's look at its goals: NANOWRIMO encourages anyone and everyone to write a novel in a month. Who thought THAT was sensible? Novels take years to write and perfect, and rely largely upon life experience and feeling.

There are some who can write a novel in a month. Jack Kerouac performed On The Road quite rapidly, but this is largely due to the aid of benzedrine. Also, he was fucking Jack Kerouac.

Which brings my next point: You're not Jack Kerouac.* Not only that, you probably don't know what a Jack Kerouac is. The average American is incapable of writing a novel. This is partly because of the lack of reading. Most people simply don't read. No one can hope to write a salable novel without having read a great deal.

*To find out if I'm right or not, answer this: Have you injected any drugs into your eyeballs? How much benzedrine have you done today? Do you live with your catholic aunt? If no, no.

And then there are people who have read The Snows of Kilimanjaro, decided that they have some self important nonsense in their soul to communicate, and do a piss poor mishmash of ideas and thoughts and delusions. A self important book is worse than a bad book.

And Chyld's book wouldn't be so much a book as a necronomicon, the sentences being replaced with unutterable blasphemies requiring several speakers at once to properly sound them out, and conjuring up the dead gods when spoken. While this might be interesting theologically, sales would be low due to the coming of Nyarlahotep and the end of the world.

The other problem is that I don't like competition. Are you competing with me? If you're writing a book or even thinking about it, then clearly you are. My advice is not to. Not only will it save you a lot of bother and wasted effort, but it means there are fewer books out there. And it means I don't have to have Slade jimmy open your window and leave a horse's head in your bed.

This, in turn, means my correspondence with my publisher will be faster, and that there will be more money in the advance pool. Of course none of NANOWRIMO's books are likely meant to be published (God I hope not) but the majority of books are unpublishable, and just get there through persistence or threats of bodily harm.

Sure, a new author out there might be able to make a great book happen, but not in one month, and not because November told him to do it. Do not listen to November.

Even if you do, and your book does get published, it still doesn't mean it's worth a damn. I mean I got Dinner Of Leeks published, for chrissakes. Half of that book was nonsense about Aunt Marjmore being eaten by a lion that then subsumed her identity. The best you can hope for is that, like Tolkien, you'll end up with a really shitty cover. A shitty cover that can be abused in amusing ways.

Now, there's a lot of bitching here, and an undercurrent of menace to anyone who might want to get into the game that I have clearly marked (both with and without urine) as my own territory. But I'm not just whining and saying I'll kill your dog if you write a novel and try to get it published. I'm proposing something wholly new.

I think that December, the month proceding NANOWRIMO, should be designated as NACABOMO: National Catherine Bourne Month. After working hard on our crappy novels we can all celebrate with our wives and Spanish girlfriends, and a former fifty-five-gallon gasoline drum with holes punched in it.