On Novel Writing.

Sir Terry Toynbee Windus, gent.

Veni, Vidi, Dormivi

Surprise be it to me that, upon reaching jolly Londontown againe, after the customary pause and rest of a fortnight anon three days in Willy-Wompus-Whole-Upon-Hamptonshire, I was celebrated, besmitten, and dined by the gentle LORDS and LADIES of that noble CITIE, and for nothing more, it seem’d to me, then my latest, SAUCY WORDS regarding Prime Ministers, CHURLS and CHARLATONS—sine cume patrium. Aye, I report, supple goose-legs dunked in a-goat’s milk! wrapped in rabbitsbutter’d liverwinkle and DELICIOUS London SAUCE! And, oh by Mount Parnassus, the welcoming I received in Heathsbridge! A gentle masque, produced for my HONOUR, with forty and a hundred boys in feathers, caste unto the air, a’covered with colored tunics of parrot hues a million, twisting and turning and twisting so as to herald God’s own GLORIE, and not that of their own soft NETHER-PARTS. But, Hark! I thought, in a flashe—not un-alike the jowly beard and glinting eye of ZEUS himself. What be this? What do these city gentles know of my WORDS and OPINONES? How have they a’read them, scanned them and weighted them for their WORTH? It appeared, they explain’d, a noble, rich, ambitious PAMPHLETEER had acquired them, without my knowing, and published them in a pamphlet—City Town Opiniones of noble worth and KNOWING, and of Noblisse and Towing, concerning the Body-Health a’Politick of London and its Surrounding Regions, of the North, the West, but not of the East etc. A wonderous title, me thought. But what scourge! What betrayel! I left the masque inflammed and marched across towne to this word-thief’s home. Bloated with ale, dripping with LAGER, I demanded an answer and REBUFF, for all his many INDECENCIES. Aye, but his wit was stronge, his purse was deep, and he knew how best to TAME me, and now I write to you, with happy hand and full, the new SERIAL writer for TOBIAS TRUNKET’S WONDER PAMPHLET, of GOODE SIZE and SHAPE, NOT THIRTY PAGES or MORE, DELIVERED EVER’Y THURSDAY ON MID-DAY, THE WEATHER, TRAFFIK, AND OUR LORD GOD PERMITTING.

Now my station is secured, I wonder, what to write? I scanned my brain for topics of wholly pamphlet worth. These new LOCOMOTIVES, perhaps—vile, black, dusty things that tear across the earth with the speed of Hermes’ winged brain, blowing and gushing with black-headed smoke and low, lonesome wails. But what does a country gentle know of traines? I am a sporting man, of the muddy earth and natural oak brambles. Of the horse’s flexing LOINS, his powerful chest, and sweaty FLANKS. I eat supper at home, in the glinting care of Margarate, my wife, Joseph, my son, and Ishmael, his barrel-chested Island Topangan friend. Eat well I do with leek and potato belly stew, pine cone pie, and macaroons. Nothing of blackened steel do I know. Away with you, low trains. Of you I have no use!

But, lo, I think: what of novel writing? This new fashione to sweep the gay parties of Londone, Oxenford, and Cambridge? Not a once have attended a masque or curtain party and not heard of the latest release from the jolly publishers on Cranklin Street. Words, ah yes words! My downy bedfellows! My companions, deepest friends and confidants. The happy vessels of my thoughts! The lusty hoppers of my brain! Of words I know and trust. Of words I shall write! The novel--Away! 

The history of this most peculiar of art forms is most peculiar of its own. It is whispered, in St. John’s wood and beyond, that a Sarah Horon Billingsdick wrote the first English novel, all of her own, the duration of her imprisonment atop Billingsdick tower, near Bristol, which she was serving for the humble crime of knocking clam pails with a Welshman. Her father was of Norman blood and proud, and had no use for the clam sucking Wester, locking his daughter away for nigh twelve years, though much the lady did protest! But a prudent mind the Welsh-leaning Billingsdick possessed, writing forty two novels in those long years. Not of a horses turd are any a one of them worth, though every Englishwoman, from Hastings to York, now emulates Lady Billingsdick in drawing pen to paper and letting their bouncy chests burst free with eager thought and emotion. Fathers be damned! Try and draw your young daughter away from a Billingsdick serial and face certainly being bitten, clawed at, struck— the ravenous screams of your prim rose of the most startling and unsavory STOCK. Some NOBLE English minds agree, the novel is a SCANDAL, and not for the nation builder, the clophopper, the tree chopper, the English Man, to participate in.

Aye, but bouncy chests aside, the novel can be a lusty ship for the haughty Englishman to board as well. Jarvis Jellybutton, Marvin Baumer, and Soothy Hall Summerton—three of the most broad shouldered, long-bearded, well be-sausaged Englishman this modest island has at once produced all a three write novels. But, their sterling packages not forgotten, these three craftsmen have seemed to begotten dull blades in recent years. Their cutting humor, shimmering wit and musky prose have seemed to wither on the page. If these three outdoors men, fine riders all, cannot satisfy the burning need, the heaving chest, the eager crotch of an entire nation and its literary tastes, what hope is there for us mortal Albions?

End of Part 1...