My brother Stuprendan and I have recently begun emailing each other stories that we are writing. The last one I sent him was my first epic, “Gallerina,” which counts at 150,000 words, and is an abysmal failure. “You probably shouldn’t try to get this published,” Stuprendan wrote back to me.
He sent me a novel he’s writing about a genius who deals in designer prescription drugs, and also serves as a drug informant to the FBI. It is not at all an expression of yearning or ambition….(not). What it is, however, is a better novel than most things than William Gibson has ever written. Both Sadie Lady and I devoured it within the first hour of receiving it.
Now, Brendan will probably be more successful than I can ever hope to become by the time he’s 20, and I feel no shortage of jealousy for that. “I wrote the chapter I sent you this afternoon so that you could get an idea of the characters,” he said, flippantly. It was 35 pages long.
Yesterday, I received a teaser about the next chapter:Â
“It is titled ‘Why Hot Girls (And Boys) Are In Need Of Ketamine.’ It is not at all like it sounds. I actually took it straight from a doctor’s website. The post is about heat dysfunction. I guess the doctor forgot that ketamine is also a date rape drug.”
Need I even say that I eagerly anticipate reading it?
