And now, what you've all been waiting for -- that excerpt from my NaNoWriMo project! I came really close to just calling it quits on this this weekend. I mean, it sounds kinda silly -- why bother writing something one knows is crap, just so one can say, "HeY, I wRoTe A fItTy-gEe WoRd NoVeL iN oNe MoNtH, yO!!!!" STUPID! Especially when I could be sitting down, actually taking my time, and trying to write something good. I've also noticed that it's much more difficult for me to write here (that is, in my room), as opposed to at work. This is like my master workshop, so it's really difficult for me (I guess) to write crap while at my esteemed machine. But at work I'm just passing time (and am usually suffering from quite the lack of sleep), so it's hardly as frustrating and dissapointing an endeavor. Sigh.

I'm going to finish the damned thing, though, if for no other reason than that there are a few good ideas in this sea of disjointed and nonsensical crap that could later be harvested, polished up, and used for other projects. And once I actually get into writing the actual story of the novel (I'm still not there yet; I want to drag the pre-story padding out as long as possible), it's possible that that may actually turn out to be pretty good -- or at least strange enough to warrant publication -- so I could chop off the beginning crap, do a few illustrations, and maybe try to sell it as a weird novella or something. Several of the bits in there now could similarly be excised and made into digressions for SC, or something. I dunno.

Anyway, enjoy this excerpt!

The Strangest Christmas Story Ever Told

Brandon Wesley Dennis

National Novel Writing Month project!

Goal: 50,000 words

GOOD LUCK.

--(excerpt)--

So it was that he steeled himself against the dull yet persistent ache in the pit of his stomach and continued his work.

At this point in the story, I imagine that you are slightly confused. Perhaps, at this very moment, you are saying to yourself, "Self, dear self, dear sweet self whom I love above all others in spite of that silly and abominable song they forced us to learn in Sunday school when I was just a wee child -- the one that went

and thereby admonished us to love and value Jesus above all others, then everyone else, and then finally ourselves -- as if such a thing were even possible! For example, how can I hope to love persons whom I have never even met more than myself, when I do not know these people at all -- having never met them -- and when I know myself so well, being forced to spend literally every moment -- whether spent in consciousness or fast asleep -- in my own company? (Though given the reality of multiple personality disorders and memory lapses and what have you, in addition to the veil of denial and willful ignorance with which most people shroud themselves to avoid facing the reality of who they really are, I suppose it is possible to not know oneself as well as one thinks.) And, taking this into account, imagine how much more difficult it must be to truly know the Almighty -- God incarnate! Methinks that old song asked impossible tasks of us, which is really the nature of Sunday school songs in general. Why, now that I think about it, it seems almost criminal to send children there! Such songs -- not to mention stories of horrible drownings perpetuated by the good God who loves us, no less -- are not for a child's ears. But wait, self, and consider this -- while it seems rather difficult indeed to love Jesus and God above all others, given that love of a subject seems to require a comprehensive knowledge of that subject and given the inherently unknowable qualities of the infinite -- is it possible not to love God above all others? Recall that God, being omnipresent, is in all things, such that even if my chiefmost love in all this world were garlic bagels slathered with strawberry cream cheese, that would entail my loving God as well? Because God is in the bagels. But in such an instance, do I properly love God, or, rather, do I love to eat God? How strange that sounds! And yet when one recalls the Catholic Mass, in which rice wafers are supposedly transformed into the very flesh of Christ Himself through mystical means, it seems rather appropriate. Yes, God resides even in our food, and we receive His blessings by devouring His succulent, holy flesh. Bon appetite. And if we drink enough of his blood, we'll get drunk on his DIVINE POWER!!! Perhaps, instead of in art galleries and posh apartments, wine tastings should take place in ancient churches with high, vaulted ceilings and magnificent stained-glass windows. Yes, that would be more appropriate."

Or perhaps you were thinking something totally different. I never claimed to be a mind-reader, after all. But whatever the case, the fact remains that the above ideas did pass through your thoughts at some point -- namely, when you read them -- because in order to interpret the text at all, you had to take in the words and consider them within the confines of your own mind. So it makes sense, then, to say that you were thinking those thoughts after all! Ha! I knew it! And naturally so, because what other discourse could possibly follow more logically from the opening of The Absolute Strangest Christmas Story Ever Told?

Let us return to your thoughts. At this moment, you are (or very soon will be, owing to the above explanation) thinking:

"Well! That was quite the digression, if I do say so myself. Why, it was as if my train of thought left on schedule and was heading towards its destination -- at the station where it would have arrived, the status of the train was clearly marked 'ON TIME' and the would-be boarders were chatting on their cell phones and telling their business partners that, yes, things could go according to plan because, for once, the train would be on time. (It's always late, mind you, because I have a tendency to lose my thoughts in tangential musings, but in my defense they are almost always interesting tangential musings, and when they are not I simply invent interesting tangential musings to communicate whenever someone inquires as to my thoughts during those lengthy pauses that interrupt my speaking as I follow the tangled threads within my mind in mid-sentence, such that interesting tangential musings always result from my mental digressions -- and therefore these digressions are good! Even when they are quite confusing.) And then, much to the disappointment of the waiting passengers, the train derailed and went sliding past great steepled churches with elaborate stained-glass windows in which the Catholic Mass was being held and children were helping themselves to Jesus Juice and rolling around on the floor, singing songs with their hands in their pants -- making love to themselves, though some denominations believe that to be a sin -- and at the same time making love to the Lord, because, supposedly, He is in all things, and hands and private parts and even the discharge that results from such pleasurable solitary activities certainly count as "things". For this those suits will be late to their meetings? Ah, hear them roar into their cell phones in rage and contempt! They're pissed indeed -- justifiably so, some would say. I, however, disagree, because they do not really exist, and so cannot be pissed off -- or, if they can, it doesn't really matter, because any complaints they make to the railroad administration will go ignored and unheard. After all, those business-oriented commuters are just products of my strange and unchecked train of thought (despite the fact that they rarely ever catch said train), which, as I've noted, derailed, and is sliding all over the place with no apparent direction whatsoever. The laws of physics do not apply within the confines of one's mind."

You, dear reader, think very strange thoughts. I should hate to be your therapist. But I'm not your therapist, so why should I hate to be him or her? I mean, really, I'm not, and not only is it rather odd indeed to hate to be something that one isn't, but to suggest that anyone has a moral obligation to hate to be something that one isn't is especially ludicrous. But supposing I were your therapist, I would hate to be him or her. Or maybe I wouldn't. It is true that you think very strange thoughts, but I imagine it would be quite a bit of fun to analyze them, for there must be a common thread stitched through them all, even if the path of the needle is very difficult to discern, owing to the strange patterns and manifold colors through which it was drawn to leave this peculiar network of ideas in its wake. And if the thread is not, in fact, a thread at all -- but is, instead, made of some thin reflective plastic substance or what have you -- it would reflect the strange colors of the fabric through which it has been pulled, such that its path would be almost impossible to determine. (We can usually follow the course of such threads with little difficulty, owing to the fact that the color of the thread usually differs noticeably from that of the fabric. But perhaps that is not the case here.) But perhaps the analysis of your tangled mesh of thoughts would be better undertaken by a patient and dextrous tailor, not a therapist. And in that case, I should hate to be your tailor. Imagine how many alterations your thinking cap would require!

But before you lost yourself among the various wrinkles and curves adorning the surface of your brain and fell prey to the manifold temptations and snares of tangential contemplation, you were going somewhere with your mind. Somewhere specific, I mean -- not the strange and random train stations with irate businessfolk on cell phones and gothic churches with their colorful stained-glass windows and the like. And not the zoo, either, though everyone must admit that the zoo is a very fun place to visit. Why, they have all sorts of animals there, from spotted giraffes to slithering snakes to red pandas (which you've always thought look quite a bit like large raccoons) and Tasmanian wolves and various insects and slick, moist frogs clinging to the glass of their enclosures and even horny rhinoceroses that will rear up on their hind legs and rape your automobile by thrusting their grey members into your exhaust pipe. No, wait -- that happens on safaris, not at the zoo. There, the rhinoceroses are kept behind bars, and unless you're zoo personnel and ride around on one of those golf carts (except they're not golf carts, because golf carts are ridden on golf courses, and the zoo is not a golf course, though I suppose, if one could tolerate the horrible stench, one could play nineteen holes in the domain of the prarie dogs), your four-wheeled vehicle (or two, if you ride a motorcycle) would not be allowed inside the zoo itself, and would therefore be safe from the lusty and violent advances of a horny male rhinoceros. That is, assuming that the zoo in question even has rhinoceroses. Because some of them don't. Some of them don't have hippopotami either, for that matter. Can you believe that? A zoo without rhinoceroses or hippos strikes me as being quite lame indeed.

Forgive me; that digression was my fault. But now I see how easy it is to get sidetracked, so I won't berate you for losing your train of thought earlier. NO -- don't you go off on that train tangent either. Find your train of thought first! I refuse to go find it for you. This mess is your fault, after all. Go ahead, search! I'll wait. Take your time.

Comments?

And for an update on the status of the project, we're currently at 11,199 words. Rah. Ja! Rajah. Hee hee.