Well, I Might As Well Write the Damn Book

I walked to a coffee shop tonight and drew a grid-like map of a small town that doesn't exist, and now I might as well write a book set in Wormwood, Nevada.

For this book, I'm going to think a little bigger and sunnier. My past two novels involved, among other things, suicide, murder, mental illness, familial alienation, the sudden loss of both parents, grief, ritualistic suicide, office life, and a badly broken heart. I've served my time in hell, as they say, and I'm ready to put on the comedic mask on again. This book will be long (at least 400 pgs, minimum), with a ton of chapters, and have a sort of Dickensian/omniscient sprawl to it. I'm going to spend years on it. I may forget it for months, and then come back to it again. It will not be strictly comedic, but instead will walk a fine line between dark and light. Sex. Death. All that good stuff that happens in-between cups of coffee. I even have my first two lines already:

After all the miles of red sand and malformed scrub brush, the small Nevada town wavered around them like a disappointing mirage. They drove slowly, trying to take all the disappointment in.