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Men at extremes
The author of "Bad Behavior" picks five tales of guys at the end of their ropes.
By Mary Gaitskill
[11/15/99]

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"Empire Express: Building the First Transcontinental Railroad" by David Haward Bain
It's sprawling and overloaded with facts, but this account of the building of the transcontinental railroad does justice to one of the great American achievements.
By Katharine Whittemore
[11/15/99]

Ivory Tower
The secret life of war
A historian exposes the unpredictably diverse feelings of ordinary soldiers, but fails to learn from their words.
By Annie Murphy Paul
[11/15/99]

Silence the snobs!
They may look down their noses at Oprah, but what have the literati done for books lately?
By Mary Elizabeth Williams
[11/12/99]

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"Nat King Cole" by Daniel Mark Epstein
A top-notch biography celebrates the jazz piano genius who gained his greatest fame as a pop singer.
By Greg Villepique
[11/12/99]

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Then I stumbled across Anvil Press' Web site and noticed a blurb about a "Three-Day Novel Contest." "The event began as a joke," the page proclaimed, "became a dare, and has now become a literary institution." It was perfect. We'd write "J.D." in one long weekend, do or die. It would be like Sir Mallory and his Everest, Earhart and her Atlantic, Captain Ahab and his Dick.

"Might as well," Mark shrugged.

Hoping to sniff out our competition, I queried Brian Kaufman, Anvil Press' managing editor. Turns out over 400 people entered last year's competition, though "we usually lose 10 to 15 percent by the time the dust settles." Since the contest works on the honor system, and since I'm a cynical bastard, I expected roughly 50 percent of our opponents would be cheaters -- people who had old novels sitting around the house and figured they'd just ship 'em on in. But the publisher was in Vancouver and most of the entrants Canadian, so maybe it wouldn't be as bad as that. Everyone knows Canadians are more honest than Americans.

I did the math. Eight words per minute head to head against 350 hacks, loons and pedants. The grand prize was an offer of publication. The first runner-up snagged a hefty $500. That's in Canadian dollars, baby.

Base Camp: One week prior

Writing with a partner is like driving cross-country using the same steering wheel -- sure, the other guy'll pay for half the gas, but will anybody really get anywhere? But I wasn't too worried. Author of "Name the Baby," Mark has been my best friend since we caught each other sneering at the professor during our college writing workshop. We've collaborated on songs, soap operas and screenplays and have edited each other's novels down to the bone.

According to official contest rules, you're allowed to outline your novel before the Labor Day weekend gantlet. So we ordered two large pizzas and scrawled out the plot. For the next few days we waded through it. We couldn't tell which had more sludge -- the Thai iced coffees we were draining by the dozens or our poor, limping outline. Neither of us dared admit that the story had more hole than donut.

False confidence is the novelist's only friend. By Friday afternoon we were sure we had crafted something great. It would be a blues jam of a book that would make Kerouac's manic prose look dainty. Everything until now -- the hours of discipline, the rejection notes, the girlfriends we'd scared off with our neurotic self-obsession, the lucrative careers we'd avoided -- was only preparation for this moment.

At precisely 12:01 a.m. we would clink shot glasses and down a quick bullet of tequila. We'd read the last paragraph of "The Great Gatsby" as our incantation. Then we'd write like lunatics until the sun rose.

The Ascent: 12:01 a.m., early Saturday morning

Delayed by a family emergency, I walked in my door at 11:55 p.m. Mark and I had decided to spend the night in our separate apartments, communicating via modem. But there was a problem with my Internet connection. After fumbling with drivers and cables, we finally hooked up at 12:19. Nineteen minutes behind schedule. Thanks a lot, Microsoft.

I was responsible for the first chapter. Which meant, I suddenly realized, that I was responsible for that crucial first sentence. I slipped on my wire-rim glasses and saw my reflection in the black monitor -- I was the spitting image of a novelist. Now go!

Next page | Dark night of the three-day novelist's soul