[Misc.]

A Word From Hog

It was completed last year. It has languished in partial fine edit since the summer. It is called The Puddle Variations, and it is a novel that begins:

A rasping, thrashing noise. Then, to his left, an enormous box, closing in. A brief struggle and he thrust himself up to face the box, which he recognized, once his eyes focused, as his apartment’s east wall. A plop and the thrashing ended with mail spread on the floor. Hand-delivered, unnecessarily, by the landlord, Mr. Booth.

It languishes no more. I will be turning my attention more seriously to it for the next few weeks, which will slow blogging. In order to settle it as a matter, I must go gather rejection letters (lit agents, small presses) into a pile, like autumn leaves. Then I may have the ceremonial burning before moving on to other things. Now, for your closure:

He woke, then yawned and stood, his mind residually pondering what he’d just written. Lights off, and in to bed. His eyes followed the streetlight to the poster again, but they never had a chance to focus. The glue claimed him.

Ta da! A novel in two paragraphs. 3,062 intervene, but whether you ever have a chance to read them or not depends on the next few months' work. Wish me luck--