I’ve been working on a novel since the middle of last year, and I’ve got to tell all of you something.
I hate writing a novel.
I hate the format. I hate the length. I hate the amount of bullshit exposition I feel I have to shove in there to get it to “novel” length.
It takes everything that made me want to write to begin with, eats it and makes it shit on itself.
I would rather take an indeterminate amount of short stories and string them together as a series than try to write The Great American Novel. I can’t believe this form still has fans.
Short stories are the punk rock ethos, exemplified.
Novels are your great grandfather trying to eat walnuts.
The tales that live in Elders Keep are long and convoluted, crazy as balls, and require some attention. Everything ties together.
The Keep is a flat circle, Ell Oh Ell.
But I think in fragments. I write in shards. And if you’re going to get any stories out of me, you need to play by my rules.
You’re going to have board my train of thought.
You’re going to have to dance on the edge with me.
Do you dare?
I bet you do.
Strap yourselves in.
You are on the giant spinning circus wheel and I am the knife thrower.
You’re about to get assaulted by blades, fragments of stories, all eventually making a larger one. My stories are a jigsaw that draws blood.
Let me cut you.
If you want fiction, you’ve got it. But on my terms.
Soon, I’ll be serializing the first Elders Keep “novel.” I’ll be making into something I love instead of something I feel obligated to write.
I think the story will be the better for it.
And since I no longer feel like I have to write “a big goddamn novel” to get my point across, you might get more stories, faster.
Your first edition is coming soon. I have two new characters for you to meet. I have some old characters for you to remember and enjoy.
And I have terrible, awful things in mind for all of them.
Are you interested? Are you in?
Then, dude, fuck a novel.
Feast on the broken glass of imagination with me.
And we’ll get through this together, from the witch hunts to the awful truth about Parham’s Field.
All I ask is that you trust, and throw down ninety-nine cents once in a while.
I know where we’re going.
Take my hand, and come dancing on the edges with me.
This is my darkness, and I know my way around.
Just take a deep breath… and follow.