In November of 2004, I didn’t write a novel. This is a series of excerpts from all the novels I didn’t write that month.
We were looking for a savior long after saving our ideals was beneficial. I mean, we couldn’t conceive of deeper shades of bleakness. Marshall Pennigton had a slick-toothed smile and apologetic eyes. He had us believing he damn near invented achievement.
Jenny knew that was a lie, of course. She knew better than any of us that what we really wanted was just something to work towards. Our constant frustration was, to her, merely our failure to accept that our lot was never to reach our goals.
Depressing? Yes and no. Jenny was our real source of hope, though it wasn’t nearly as apparent before that sentence was written down just now. Our adoration was shown in constant condescension for her blindness regarding Marshall’s worth. Marshall made glory attainable in our eyes. We did not realise he had said nothing about the road.