Wednesday, December 13, 2006
We Weren't Sleeping...My Muses and I Were Thinking...
5:30 am and 75 degrees.
Gordon is working on his portfolio of compromising photographs. I protested.
My muses and I were working on our next entries in the Edward Bulwer Lyttonworst contest.
It required total concentration.
lots of snoring.
For your reading pleasure.
Several blogs have discussed the Edward Bulwer Lytton worst sentence awards sponsored by San Jose State University each year.
They are hilarious
Maui Writers' Retreat has their own unique version of this award . Each year they hold this contest at the retreat and each year I enter with enthusiasum.
I have always felt I was most successful at creating atrocious sentences and was delighted to discover there were actually places I would be rewarded for writing them.
I have a modest selection of my previous entries here.
My honorable mention sentence for 2005:
He was her dream, her fantasy, the sex God of her mind but Miranda had to reconsider when his orthopedic shoes caught on the ragged edge of her sidewalk, plunging his balding head to the cement, scraping both knees below his blue postal shorts, dumping his mail pouch to the ground and spilling onto the grass undelivered letters, brown packages, a well-used 357 magnum pistol, six boxes of ammunition, and a half eaten roll of Mentos.
My second place finish for 2006:
(Notice I have improved my placing!)
Sliding the oaken paddle out of the brick oven, Blaze’s hazel eyes fondled the two round, plump, browned loaves of bread lightly dusted with white flour and was instantly reminded of Jessica; he wondered where she was now, what she was doing, and if she had finally kicked that nasty little cocaine habit of hers, and whether her Siamese twin brother Jerry had successfully escaped from that sordid Mexican prison to take over their murdered father’s El Segundo BMW dealership.
My work in progress:
Pamela bent down to tie her shoe, exposing her enormous, rounded rump, tightly restrained in black capri pants, the twin mounds posing as generously proportioned bowling balls that most men would like to stick three fingers in, and roll vigorously down the alley of their dreams for a strike.
How do you like them?
Please feel free to contribute your endeavors in the comment section:
WARNING: COVER YOUR KEYBOARD!
WRITERS...START YOUR ADVERBS!