I am currently working on a novel, as yet untitled, which I began during (Inter-)National Novel Writing Month in 2011 (yes, I did write 50,000 words in one month), and am continuing during its unofficial spin-off, January Novel Writing Month, in 2012. It doesn't have a title yet, but if I had to come up with a pithy one-line description, it would be something along the lines of "The Cath Maige Tuired meets The Monkeywrench Gang".
The following excerpt is the (tentative) first page of the novel, and features the three major protagonists each trying to introduce the story in their own way:
Uh… hi. This thing on? OK, sorry, lame attempt at humour there. Anyway, this, I guess, is the story of how three people, and a bunch of their friends, set out to save the world — a little bit at a time, you know, the realistic way — but ended up doing it big-time, for real, not just by organizing protests and stuff, because reality kind of took a left turn on us, and…
Wait, that sentence kind of got away from me. Maybe I should start again…
. . .
Dag, honey, how about you let me try instead?
This is the story of a story that became reality, that birthed itself into the world through the combined sweat and blood and dreams and heartbreaks of a small band of people who loved the Earth too much to let Her die alone. Stories live, and breathe, and dance in the spaces between facts, the misty places where truth and lies meet and make one. The old tales have power: they can draw you into their dance, sing to your soul, dress you in dreams and place the mask of a myth upon you, and before you know it, you are walking in the footsteps of a god. The power rises in you, the magic awakens, the world changes. But when the story is done, and you are left merely human once more, how do you go on? How do you go back to paying the bills, fixing bikes, writing your thesis, or whatever it is you do, once you’ve had a taste of that?
By telling the story, that’s how. By telling it and telling it and telling it again, as long as anyone is there to listen. Because that is how stories come alive. That is how myths are born, and the new ones are as vital as the old.
. . .
Fuck you both. This is the story of three people who should probably be on heavy medication, who are writing down a metric fuck-ton of weird shit that we are for some reason convinced actually happened to us, in a probably-doomed-to-failure effort not to go any crazier than we already are. That a good enough intro for you? And by the way — I still don’t believe in gods.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that long enough, it’ll actually be true again one of these days.
. . .
Oh, Maureen. It’s not about whether you believe in gods, honey. It never has been. It’s about whether They believe in you.