In April 2001, I thought aloud about the kind of book I would write if I was the last person on earth, i.e., writing for no one but myself, and decided it would be sort of dumb and silly:
A slaphappy comic book, overcreative sexual encounters constantly interrupting the hackneyed plot, maybe a thin, stringy stew of, I dunno, Romancing the Stone and Your Code Name Is Jonah, space stations with blades and sails, glass fortresses in the desert, wisecracks, crowded with characters, always talking talking, pages of unattributed dialogue and then pages of undiscussed action and then everyone there at an epilogue, shaking hands, laughing in mild embarrassment, forgiving old grudges while still laying the groundwork for future installments.
It just occurred to me that this is about a 75% accurate description of the novel I’ve been writing for the past few years.