The question is not whether Trump will win. He will. Big. Americans are tired of being burned by Washington.
No, the question is whether I can top "Trump the Press." I mean it was a unique situation in which every expert got it wrong except the guy who draws Dilbert. Surely that won't happen again.
Anyway, I toyed with this opening last week:
In his 1949 novel, Intruder in the Dust, Nobel literary laureate William Faulkner wrote, “For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it's still not yet two o’clock on that July afternoon in 1863, the brigades are in position behind the rail fence, the guns are laid and ready in the woods and the furled flags are already loosened to break out and Pickett himself with his long oiled ringlets and his hat in one hand probably and his sword in the other looking up the hill waiting for Longstreet to give the word and it's all in the balance, it hasn't happened yet, it hasn't even begun yet, it not only hasn't begun yet but there is still time for it not to begin against that position and those circumstances which made more men than Garnett and Kemper and Armstead and Wilcox look grave yet it's going to begin, we all know that, we have come too far with too much at stake and that moment doesn't need even a fourteen-year-old boy to think This time. Maybe this time with all this much to lose and all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland, the world, the golden dome of Washington itself to crown with desperate and unbelievable victory the desperate gamble, the cast made two years ago....”
Then a year later Southern boys of fourteen do what Northern boys of fourteen do; they turn fifteen, discover girls, and if they have any thoughts of spending time in the woods, it is with some like-minded lass.
A dead end. Nice, but I cannot see building a book from that.
By the way, Professor Foote died 11 years ago. He's the reason most of us know this passage.