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my start. The young women would crane their necks to hear me. Had I just mentioned “Elijah”? For surely by now they’d seen in the Entertainment Weekly profile that Elijah Wood was starring in the movie based on my book. Ron Howard was attached. James and his cloddish Australians would sulk and stare at their beers and punch each other in the arm. And Polly would be dragged away, again and again, by bridesmaids asking to be introduced to Peter Tarslaw. And as the evening wound down, I’d hold the prettiest one, the smart-cutest, enthralled as I issued quiet pronouncements about how “a writer makes it his duty to be midwife and doctor to an idea being birthed.” And then I’d lead her away, kind of discreetly, but she’d privatelydelight in knowing that eyes were cagily seeing her leave to be favored by the writer Peter Tarslaw. And Polly herself would slap her flowers to the table in rage, upstaged at her own wedding. Defeated.
    I decided to become a famous novelist.
    THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
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A writer’s job is to tell the truth.
    —Ernest Hemingway
A writer strives to express a universal truth.
    —William Faulkner
If you want to write, and have your writing mean something to someone, above all it must be true.
    —Preston Brooks
    What a crock of horseshit. Since when has anybody wanted to hear the truth? People hate the truth. It’s literally their least favorite thing in the entire universe. People will believe thousands of different lies in succession rather than confront a single scintilla of truth. People like love that crosses the years, funny workplaces, goofy dads who save Christmas, laser battles, whiny hags who marry charming Italians, and stylish detectives. But try telling somebody a single true thing about human experience and they’ll turn on the TV or adjust their Netflix queue while you starve to death in the rain. People don’t trot down to Barnes & Noble to pay $24.95 for the truth.
    I’m willing to give Faulkner and Hemingway a pass. But when Preston “My Writing Is a Cudgel” Brooks declaims about truth, he’s lying.
    Rule 1: Abandon truth.
    That was my first rule for my novel. By six o’clock on Saturday evening, I’d outlined The Tornado Ashes Club. Here’s how I did it.
    The morning after I decided to be a famous novelist, my head was throbbing more than is ideal. But the image of Preston Brooks and his college harem hung before me like a torchlight guiding a mountain climber. And the image of Polly Pawson and her degenerate Australian wedding party prodded me from behind, like Sherpas with pointy sticks.
    A first step was itemizing my goals.
    GOALS AS A NOVELIST:
1. FAME —Realistic amount. Enough to open new avenues of sexual opportunity. Personal assistant to read my mail, grocery shop, and so on.
2. FINANCIAL COMFORT —Never have a job again. Retire. Spend rest of life lying around, pursuing hobbies (boating? skeet shooting?).
3. STATELY HOME BY OCEAN (OR SCENIC LAKE) —Spacious library, bay windows, wet bar. HD TV, discreetly placed. Comfortable couch.
4. HUMILIATE POLLY AT HER WEDDING.
    Next, rules. A Googling of “rules for writing” unveiled the truth fallacy. Another Brooks quote, frequently cited online: “As a rule, a writer would be better off hauling tar or stunning calves in a slaughterhouse. Real writing, honest writing, will tear your guts out.”
    By this point, I was just in awe of the guy. He’d use any wild deceit to hide his fraud. Writers couldn’t be trusted. I’d have to discover the real rules for successful novel crafting on my own.
    I had novelists I admired, but they don’t offer much inspiration.
    Consider Whit Kerner. He wrote The Forbidden Chronicle of the World, a terrific, funny book about a conspiracy of harridans who secretly run the universe. Current rumor among the few who cared was that Whit Kerner had done so much heroin his hands had fallen off and he was trapped in a cabin, unable to dial a phone, somewhere