novel hovel

Hey guys, after reading Jeff's Sagittarian Conflict poem, I decided I'd share a paragraph from my novel that stresses the main character's early romance to a wife of his, or at least, his reflection on the subject. Just some quick things to know for this part of my novel: the main character is immortal, he's on a road trip, he's a novelist (and remember, this is just a smaller story in the larger scope of the novel! wheeeee!!!). Hope you guys like.

His whole life had been pointed to this moment, directed, and whipped, beaten and loosened. The immortal could feel wild lifetimes converging in his veins, a wife roaring, a novelist scrawling. He could see Eloise, his love, sitting high in a castle of theses and red capped pens. He thought about her and motored. Sometimes it was easy to dream her into existence, thinking about plastic and paper clips, flesh and fingernails. Sometimes it was too easy to love her. He revved the engine; the distant halo of the city dwindled behind. The immortal shook himself; but she is noble too, he whispered, and spelled the word Eloise in his mind. She had a strong sense for fiction, fancying all elements of Shakespeare and Salinger. She sparkled like a drum more often than not, and her rhythm was a river, and the immortal was a leaf. He kicked the acceleration harder, upped the rev, and faded faded. He wanted to be with her now, despite himself, despite her university schedule. He wanted to be near; he thought about their origin. He was a sailor, she was a student, he took her fishing, she wrote him poetry. They fell in love in bungalows and libraries. He had written a novel about it once; an empty house passed by. He didn’t think much of the novel, but he wanted to believe in it. It was one of the first things he had written, and even now it sat dense somewhere in a cellar, collecting dust for no one. And this cross country trip too, he thought, was made for believing. It was a snake, a dragon with many heads, and he wanted to be a knight, spinning wheels and all. He wanted to carve his initials in every tree he saw on his way west to the great desert. Here stood an immortal man, soul and all, he imagined, a large knife, a cut-away desert setting, cacti and lizards. All on the way home, and take your time too, he reminded himself; he didn’t want to get there before he got there. He had to make sure that his bike was beautiful and smooth, and that it ate the road, and that when he stopped, there would be a red landscape with a single tree and a beautiful young thing and a wicked creek. The immortal had to have his fun, it was essential.