I wonder if anyone has serialized a novel on a blog. It’s an idea. Here’s a passage from my novel, Your Silent Face. The editing process is almost complete.
Sometimes I’d roll up on Nigel’s house when it was deathly still, but I’d find him in there, draped across his bed, reading Surrealist poetry or analyzing chess problems in the weak light filtering through his screen-less bedroom window. “Hey, man, what’s up?” he’d say, as if I had been downstairs making scrambled eggs. Other times I’d knock and let myself in and find myself confronted with all the usual signs of an East-sider’s evening—images from the TV flashing across the wall in the living room, a record playing on the stereo in his bedroom, a half-empty 40oz-er of Stroh’s beside the bed, and in his case, a piece of typing paper in a half-cocked typewriter—but it would be as if he’d been kidnapped by drug lords, or had spontaneously combusted.
