The other day I started to write the Great American Novel.
It began a little something like this:
“What you are now reading is the Great American Novel. It’s going to be one helluva ride, so strap yourself in, and hold on for some of the craziest literary fun you’ve ever experienced.”
Sadly, my editor suggested I avoid pointing out that I’m writing the Great American Novel, that I should let people decide for themselves how Great, how American, and how Novel my work is.
He also said that Mark Twain (or maybe it was Ernest Hemingway or John Steinbeck, I really wasn’t paying attention) already wrote the Great American Novel, so I’d have to try another avenue.
I proceeded to rework my book, and after hour upon hour of mind-bending rewrites I came up with this:
“Que te es nowo readingo es Greato Espagne Novelo. Est goinge to beo helluva rideo, so strapo teselfo in, ando holdo ono for some ofo craziesto literario funo te’ve evero experiencedio.”
Needless to say, my editor did not like this piece either. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I I don’t know Spanish, but I thought adding vowels would give it that Latin flavor everyone is so hot for these days. I mean, look at the Ricky Martin phenomenon. Why shouldn’t I be able to cash in on my Spanish roots?
You might say, “Maybe ’cause you’re not Spanish.”
And I would answer, “But German, English and Irish are pretty close to Spanish. Hell, two of the three end in ‘ish’.”
Anyways, enough with this piddling thought. I must return to the Great Anglo-French, Latin-American, Hyphenated Novel…