Now that I've scribbled out a few thousand passable words to a novel about Detroit, I'm accepting bets regarding my original claim: that it'll blow Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections out of the water. (I expect Mr. Franzen, if he believes in his own work, and who's not hurting for cash, to put up a hundred.)
I expect antagonists of mine to jump at this. They can choose any esteemed lit critic they want to call it, once my book is further along. How can they possibly lose the bet?
My thinking: I don't have NEA, PEN, Guggenheim, MacArthur, et.al. grants up the ass like establishment pets have. I need some other incentive! (Writing novels is a notoriously inefficient use of one's time, unless you're in with the right crowd.)
(I'm also scribbling out a short play. . . .)