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I know I’m not supposed to begin work on my NaNo writing until the stroke of midnight on November 1st, but rules be damned, I’ve begun.  The other NaNo writers in the Salem group can harrass me all they want, taunt me and call me a cheater, but I can assure them that it will fall on deaf ears.  It’s been so long since I’ve written anything that to hold off on any idea right now would be madness on my part.  It’s like the married man’s wife offering him sex.  Hey, when the opportunity’s there, you run with it!

If you’ve followed along here since the beginning, you know that I’ve participated in NaNo for a couple of years now, but always without success.  For one reason or another, I’ve never made it to the end of the 50,000 word monthly goal, and have, in fact, usually fallen far short.  I won’t promise anything different this time around, but have a feeling that things could turn out better.  I’m a different man than I was at this time a year ago, life has seen to that, giving me quite the mental beating over the last twelve months (my lack of writing here being one of the consequences).

I haven’t decided how much of this story I’ll post as I go along - maybe all of it, maybe excerpts, maybe nothing - I don’t know.  What I will tell you today is that the story is called The Constant Hand of Tomas Smollet, and will be written somewhat in the fashion of Tobias Smollett’s Travels Through France and Italy, as in the story will be told mostly as a collection of long, detailed letters, most of which will have been written by the books main character, Tomas Smollet.  I won’t give away much more at the moment, other than to say that the story’s letters all take place in a not too distant future, but have been compiled sometime in the mid 22nd century.  Why the futuristic tilt?  So I can have the chance to be prophetic, of course.  Why else?

Here’s an excerpt from the book’s introduction:

The Constant Hand of Tomas Smollet

An Introduction

It is safe to say that literally hundreds of books have been written of the chaotic upheaval experienced throughout the United States in the early 21st century, yet it is unfortunate, but as is often the case with historical writing, that only a small handful of these books prove to be backed by thorough research and well-documented facts, leaving the vast majority of them, while perhaps entertaining, amounting to nothing more than collections of second, third, and often fourth-hand accounts of the events that took place during that time.  There is the argument, however, and perhaps one worthy of reflection, that we are being hasty when we hold up one account of events over another and claim that it is the “more accurate”, for as the late British historian Denival Cromwell was fond of reminding us, “This pile of shiny marbles that we call “history” will forever be in need of constant restacking, and if there is but one historical truth, it is that the same, favored marble will not always rise to the top of the stack.”

So where then, you are doubtless asking yourself, does this book fall?  What is so different about The Constant Hand of Tomas Smollet  that it warrants of you both your valuable time and money?  These are valid questions.

As editor of this book, it would seem that I should have a clear and precise answer to these questions, and that by not answering them, I should fail in my duty to properly sell you on the merits of the book, but it is my hope that you will find somewhere in yourself the desire to read further, and that by doing so, you will have the chance to answer these questions for yourself, which I assure you, is the only way this book can and should be approached.  Does The Constant Hand of Tomas Smollet contain truth?  Yes, certainly, but what those truths are should be something that you decide upon for yourself, and not have dictated to you the book’s editor.

And as you will see, should you continue reading, the classification of this book is no easy task, for the collection of letters, when taken as a whole, cover a vast variety of subjects which cannot be readily summarized.  The collection is as much mystery novel as it is historical reference, just as it is as much autobiography as it is, believe it or not, prophetic guidebook.  In his letters, Smollet discloses much about his own personality, writing with an apparent openness that reveals both his strengths and weaknesses, offering the reader a unique . . . .

It of course goes on and on and seems to want to never stop, as introductions so often seem to do.

12 September 2036

Dear Miss Palaminia,

Exactly three weeks ago today my foot came to rest upon a piece of ground that called out to me in a way I have never before experienced, and since that moment I have busied myself with the necessary task of creating a residence for myself, so that I might remain here throughout the fast-approaching winter, which I have been informed on more than one occasion is often quite harsh. And since it is my wish to remain here not only this winter, but for all of the remaining winters of my life, however many that proves to be, I have taken my task to heart, placing hands to dream, saw to board, hammer to nail, and for the better part of three weeks now, have measured and cut and pounded so diligently that it seems I have failed to take notice of several other aspects of this new life of mine that are taking place, some of them, apparently, under the very tip of my own nose, lying as close to me as a long, stone’s throw across the nearby meadow lake. I was informed by the woodsman named Jamb only yesterday of the nearness of this new home of mine to your own home. Apparently, Miss Palaminia, you and I are to be neighbors, or have been now, albeit unknowingly to me, for some three weeks, and if it pleases you to read any further, I should very much like the opportunity to correct my past oversight and properly introduce myself.

My name is Tomas Smollet. I have been told in the past that it is a simple name that belies my true nature, and that I am at heart a complicated man suffering the idea of simplicity in a complex world. Perhaps this is true, perhaps not. It is an interesting observation, to say the least, and a conclusion that you may, upon our ever meeting, arrive upon yourself. I will not, nay, cannot stand in the way of personal opinion. I will say, however, that given the proper time and the right frame of mind, I might convince someone willing to listen to my story that I am no more convoluted than the next man, which of course may be saying very little, depending upon the opinions you currently hold of the men you happen to know. You may very well hold all men in low esteem, at which case, I have already done myself more harm than good with the casual observations I throw about in this letter, but it would not be the first time in this life that I had undermined my own intentions. Far from it, in fact. But since I am on the subject of observations, I may as well make one more, saying that it seems that in so many aspects of this life—perhaps I might even go so far as to suggest that this is true of all aspects of life—acceptance and understanding comes back time and time again to the delicate matter of first impression and personal opinion, which I have come to respect as perhaps this world’s greatest, and yet least understood, power.

Pausing for a moment with my writing, I might ask myself what kind of impression I myself might be making.  How am I doing?  What impression am I leaving on this new neighbor with these words of mine, these far too many observations and opinions?  A poor one, I fear, for reading back just now I fear that up to this point I have given you nothing about myself other than my name, that simple label handed to me by my mother at birth.  I have said almost nothing and yet have rambled on most excessively.

I have sometimes wondered if the world wouldn’t have turned out much differently if instead of using just a name, we would have evolved into the kind of people who were comfortable introducing themselves to one another with a tale or story or some description of some place we had been, some words showing that we had taken the time to notice something about the world around us and that we were now willing to share with another.  Names are such a brief attempt to label ourselves that they often sadden me when I think that what they really are is a label for our own impatience.  Our names are short either because we don’t have or don’t want to take the time to get to know other people, but perhaps even sadder, we don’t want to take the time to explain who it is we are, and so we condense everything about ourselves into that one small label.

Hello, my name is Tomas Smollet. 

See what I mean?  Reading that, what do actually know about me?  Do those two words, those two symbols actually mean anything?  No, of course not.  They mean next to nothing, and yet, we have come to rely so much upon this type of introduction, this exchange of names.

So having now filled these pages with absolutely nothing, I will simply say that I should enjoy very much the opportunity to walk around this magnificent lake that separates us—as I have no boat as of yet and am much too old for a swim of that undetermined length—so that we might both be given the chance to share something of ourselves other than our names.  I shall continue to work on my home while I wait for your reply, and look forward to that day.  Perhaps the woodsman Jamb will be the deliverer of your message, as up to this point, other than the two times I have taken the time to walk into the village, he seems to be the sole source of news for this entire valley.  I am beginning to wonder, in fact, if he is even a woodsman at all, but rather some sort of old-fashioned town crier.  If he is, I have no doubt that he is the quietest, most tight-lipped town crier in the entire history of town criers, for I don’t believe I have ever met a man more short of words than Jamb.

I await your reply, and remain until that time,

humbly yours,

Tomas Smollet