Search the Internet for “greatest novel ever” and you get a ton of lists compiled by the likes of Time and Modern Library and Wikipedia. What you don’t get is the truth.
For I know that the greatest novel of all time is not on these lists; the greatest novel of all time is rotting at the bottom of a drawer in my bedroom. This priceless manuscript has collected dust the past few years, unseen through many dark and stormy nights while Netflix spewed from the TV in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of College Gameday Football while Facebook rattled along the screen of my laptop. Nevertheless…
Like many great works, this novel was rejected by a slew of unreceptive literary agents. Why? Because it didn’t fit their mold of maximum profit—a mold designed to churn out vanilla fiction for consumers with IQs of 100 and appetites for munching bottom sand in the holes where they dug and placed their heads.
These vapid readers inhabiting the wide middle of the consumer bell curve prefer trudging slop like Ulysses, The Great Gatsby, Catcher in the Rye, or To Kill a Mockingbird.
Meh. Those novels are fine, but do they have…
Badass secret agents?
False flag ops?
Gorgeous A-list celebrities on the lam?
Genetically-modified super viruses?
Intra-CIA civil wars for the spoils of the world?
Presidents who can’t bowl worth a crap?
No? Well, then I guess you’d have to say Ulysses COULD have been a great novel, but Terminal Departure, by yours truly, KICKS. ITS. EVERLOVING. BUTT. ;-)
So, while I’m polishing the greatest novel of all time for Kindle and Nook format, I give you the first chapter at the link below. I’ll try to clean up and post a new chapter each Monday.