Jumping Off Points

It seems every other person I meet in New York is "working on a novel" which I understand to be the more sophisticated and cosmopolitan version of the Los Angeles native's de facto act of "finishing up a screenplay."

Jobless intellectuals in New York like to write full paragraphs and use quotation marks. Trés chic.

What are the mainly bullshit, "look at what I'm doing" lines that people outside of intellectual hubs use? If I lived in a logging community in the Northwest, would I be sick of hearing about people working on their version of The Great American Porch or talking about the shed they've been commissioned to do, ya know not actually paid to do it, but it's one of those deals where they're pretty sure that if this shed hits big, a larger distributor (fingers crossed...Home Depot?!?) will definitely show interest...hopefully with, who knows, a four shed deal.

Also, HarperCollins is asking about any bird-feeder ideas I might have.

My main point in all of this is, of course, that I too need to be working on a novel. Lying is out of the question - some work must be done before I can say that I am indeed in the midst of a project...and therefore, I now present for the first time seen anywhere, selections from my upcoming first novel and soon to be party-conversation piece, "The Wind Became the Truth : Tokyo Drift."

Morris breathed deeply, the hanging mist of the cold Aleutian air stinging his lungs, and gathered himself, weary from the struggle and his daring escape, taking pause but still well aware that the next attack would come soon. He let out a wise chuckle; he rationalized that a younger, less world-weary Morris McKeever would not have survived the onslaught. The youthful, inquisitive Morris would have hesitated, he would have clamped up, concerned less about his own safety than with trying to figure out how the giant squid was able to scale fifteen thousand vertical feet in subzero weather with no climbing gear in sight.

The suction cups had done a number on his arms, and with each rapid heartbeat he felt the bloody red mounds on his biceps pulse in rhythm. Exhausted, he sat and leaned back against the Ice Fortress, clutching the ice harpoon to his sweater which was now caked in frozen blood and ink. His head bobbed as his eyes slowly closed...and then...in a flash of giant eye and beak...the squid was upon him.

Pretty intense stuff. Of course, it doesn't make much sense if you don't know the squid's backstory, his relationship with his parents, his history as an outdoorsman, etc etc.

Ask me about it next time you see me at a party. Or better yet, just ask what I've been up to.

Do the words, "working on a novel" mean anything to ya?