Victory at last

I won. The book is complete.

The novel is 50,468 words, though it has no title.

It does have ostriches, ninjas, pirates, madness, death, love, a cardboard cutout of Bettie Page shot through the forehead, a giant spider, twenty large canisters of pudding, a rapier duel, model train enthusiasts, regret, slavering monsters, exhumations, a floating village off the Philippine coast, sansabelt slacks, and a magical chicken sandwich. It's a busy little story.

It lacks coherence, depth of characterization, and monkeys.

It's a fusion of too many comic books, P.G. Wodehouse, bad movies, the zeitgeist of the McSweeney's era, and, um, classical Russian novels. It's a giant mess.

But goddammit, it's done.


Now I can alter my business cards.

"Harvey Jerkwater: Hero, Lover, Rock-and-Roller, and Novelist."

Kickass.


Now let us never speak of this piece of crap again.

Back to comics!