Anybody can write bad(ly). But writing atrociously – the kind of effort that should subject the novelist to corporal punishment except everyone knows it’ll never happen ‘cuz most fiction writers aren’t in the Army (and would probably have a different rank if they were) – is both hard work and requires true talent. More work than I care to devote to it.
No one knows this better than the participants in the Bulwer-Lytton writing contest. Inspired by the writings of the author of the famous, overly wordy opening sentence which began, “It was a dark and stormy night…,” these contestants compete to write the “worst,” wordy first sentence of fictitious fiction. See bulwer-lytton.com. However, not surprisingly, the “worst” openers are sometimes pretty funny.
It’s an interesting concept – purposely writing bad fiction that goes no further than the first sentence. Obviously, to commercialize this into a treatment for a TV series, ballad, novel or rock opera, you’d have to develop it further. Only then would copyright protection really make sense.
The problem is, these one-sentence wonders are often show-stoppers. It’s hard to come up with a zinger second sentence. But what if you string a few entries together? Maybe something will catch a producer’s eye on the A&E TV network. Like the following. The bold portions are entries from the contest in prior years.
Criminy, thought Francine as she left the birthing center, if the baby's an unknown life-form, it probably means Ricky wasn't really from West Hartford, either. But, after a moment’s reflection, she realized there had been clues. Like her abduction awhile back. And the carcasses. She thought it had been a delirious dream, going through that initiation with Ricky in that eerie room, and all. But “coming to” on the road suggested otherwise. The scorched pasture, with its charred and smoking remains of dead cattle, was the least of Francine’s worries, and as she pondered her shredded gown, newly shaved head, and the quickly disappearing spaceship in the Nevada twilight, she realized if she were going to hitchhike back to Carson City, she'd have to show a damn sight far more leg than she had ever intended.
Too much? OK. How about this then:
“Where to hide?” was Ovinia's only thought as she raced madly across the field outside Aberdeen and up a grassy incline, frantically seeking escape from the man who was hell-bent on possessing her, on making her his and his alone, having succumbed to her beauty, drawn into near madness by the watery depths of her brown eyes and lured by the exotic perfume of lanolin and newly-mown hay which wafted from her thick coat as she grazed. Why Rodney was driven by such bovine inspiration was an udder mystery. Having escaped the Umbagog State Prison only ten days before, with only one shoe intact, he had reason enough to shun such a risk. In fact, each half-shod step in his canter reminded the amoorous criminal why he broke out in the first place. Stamp, stack, stamp, stack, stamp, stack, Rodney was going insane from the monotony of the job and the cruel irony of being guest of the New Hampshire penal system, forced to read the words over and over: “Live Free or Die,” “Live Free or Die,” “Live Free or Die.”
After all, how great does the concept have to be to beat out a show like “Hoarders”?