As November draws to a close, so too must my series of not-novels that I won’t be writing for this year’s NaNoWriMo.
If you’re actually participating in NaNoWriMo, and you haven’t yet given up, then worry not – you still have another two days to hit the coveted fifty-thousand-word count. Also, I salute you, I don’t think, in previous years when I have tried to do NaNoWriMo, that I ever made it past day 15, and even that year I’d really started to fade quite badly by around day 8.
But for my little series lampooning the modern novel, this is the twelfth and (for the time being) final contribution.
To be honest I’m amazed I’ve managed to churn out this many.
When I came up with the concept at the start of the month I only anticipated producing five. But it seems that, while I’ve oft struggled to find the requisite inspiration to produce my own novel, I seem to have no difficulty in finding the inspiration to mock the novels of others.
I’m not sure what that says about me as a person.
Probably nothing good.
But I’ve quite enjoyed it.
Particularly the fact that some people have told me that they would actually buy and read some of these nonsensical novels.
To be fair, they’d probably all sell a lot better than the kind of introspective, self-indulgent lament on modernity that would inevitably be the focus of any novel I might actually be bothered to produce.
And high sales figures is the motivation behind today’s, final, entry into the collection:
You were hoping for an action-packed thriller starring everyone’s favourite ‘Symbologist’ Robert Langdon? You wanted a slightly incoherent plot underpinned by historical inaccuracy, written with questionable grammar and sentences like “the tall man picked up the big red book”?
You wanted conspiracy theories, implausible dialogue and easy-to-spot plot twists?
Sorry, you won’t find any of that here.
This is a slow-moving piece of high-brow literary fiction about the ruminations of a retired postal worker as he comes to grip with the passing of time and the ever-changing state of the world around him. ‘Dan Brown’ is the eponymous hero of the story, not the author. The author is me. James Proclaims. Surely that’s abundantly clear if you look at the cover of the book?
No, you can’t have your money back.