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Here's the introduction for my NaNoWriMo project. Feel free to mock.

<center>Work In Progress</center>

Well, hullo there. Yes, yes, I know you're expecting some sort of story here, but to be honest, we haven't got one. In fact, the Author and I were just trying to think of one when you got here. So, would you mind leaving for a bit and coming back in a few pages? I think we've really got something with this "Jesus had a wife... and children!" bit. We're going places with this one.

What, Dan Brown beat us to it?! You've gotta be kidding me. Wait 'till I tell the Author. Boy is he gonna be pissed.

Ah, well. Back to the ole' drawing board, as they say. Although who "they" are, I bet I'll never know. Makes one wonder if there's some sort of secret society that goes saying things all the time. You never know.

I guess this is as good a time as any to introduce myself. Cough, cough. I am... the Narrator. Yes, with a capital "N". As you may have guessed by now, I narrate. Lowercase this time. Capital for the name, lowercase for the action... you get it.

What exactly do I narrate? Well, this and that. Just about everything, if you must know. I did some Shakespeare back in college, but these days I try to go for the more comedic works. But times have been tough as of late, and I've been forced to narrate this... drivel. Just don't let the Author know I called it that, or I'll lose my job. He's a bit emotional about his work. Just like all authors, really. It's part of being the artistic type. You know what I'm talking about. Those people who lock themselves in their rooms, blather about destiny and the cosmos? they also tend to inhale things that I prefer to keep not only away from my lungs, but also from pets, small children, and corrodible metals. Still, if it gets them writing, the more power to them, I say.

Speaking of which, the Author says he's finally got something going. Personally, I doubt that it will last for more than a few pages before he gets bored and staggers back to the cabinet underneath the sink for a quick pick-me-up, but stranger things have happened (is this a reference to the Red Sox? Why yes, yes it is.)

And now, with great ado, I present to you... Chapter One: [Placeholder Title].



<center>Chapter One: [Placeholder Title]</center>

Matthew woke up. He was rather disappointed by this, for various reasons. The first of which was that he was having a dream that he would later describe as being "Simply wonderful" in which he had finally written his novel, gotten it published, and won a Pulitzer. Oddly enough, the Pulitzer Prize itself had been made of green cheese, and stank terribly. But even that couldn't dampen his spirits in the dream, for, as far as he was concerned, he was at the top of the world.
The second reason for his disappointment was that it was a Sunday, and there was never anything on television on Sundays. This simple fact of life, which so many Americans have loathed, struck him particularly deeply. When questioned about it, he had to admit that it didn't particularly matter since he hardly watched the blasted thing, but it was the principle of the thing. What, he often asked himself, was the point of having an enormous television set if fourteen-point-two-eight-five percent of the time it was useless?
Third, and finally, he was obliged to pick up his cat from the vet today. And this, above all else, was a cause for concern.
Long ago, he had decided that all great writers needed some sort of pet to keep them company. For kinship with another living being could be the best inspiration a man could have. Or, at least, so he believed at the time. Since the arrival of the cat, his view had shifted dramatically towards "All other living things can go jump off a bridge".