WORST OPENING PARAGRAPH.

"I'm Florence Nightingale! I'm Florence Nightingale!" screamed my dad as he streaked through the halls of St. Egbert's Cathedral.

Today, as I was walking through St. Egbert's Cathedral, I pondered the words of my wife. She had excalimed: "You are insane!" I was hesitating on the best course of action, when I saw a man streaking through the building, screaming: "I'm Florence Nightingale! I'm Florence Nightingale!"
It was with a resigned sigh that I grabbed my cellphone and speeddialed my doctor for the number of a good shrink.

naj, we should write the world's worst novel. Hmm, there's an idea for a topic.

Only if we can invite Dan Brown to add those sublime stylistic touches. Otherwise, how could our work qualify, Jespah?

It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly, a shot rang out! The gardener dropped the smoking gun, looking down at the missus of the house, the woman he loved, the woman he had just murdered. Within minutes, the police arrived and arrested the man. Soon after, the private eye that had arrived earlier that night left looking dejected, knowing he had absolutely nothing to do with solving the crime.
The End

*snif* a true drama. The tension, the excitement! Your sudden plot moves are unexpected and fascinating. Oh master storyteller, enlighten us to your secrets? Tell me how I can make my up and comming work:
"12000 pages of statistical facts regarding the layers of fat around my bellybutton" a true bestseller! I implore thee!

Naj

Okay. First, you need to spend absolutely no time thinking about plot or story or coherency. Then, you clear your mind of all rational thinking. Finally, you type out whatever sludge ends up floating around after steps one and two are accomplished.
Let me know when your book is on the market. I'd like to purchase a copy. Now that I think about it, that title might have made a good title for this thread.

Plus you should mention Florence Nightingale.

Good idea. I have a couple more entries I'll be posting when I get home this evening. I'll try to word Florence into them.

Ok, ok...

Let me give this a shot. Ok, ok, no story. Or plot. Stir in the sludge... Hmm, porridge... Nooo, nono.. keep focus. Stir stir... looks like mud.. Yuck. Ehm.. Let's see, add some Florence Nightingale... Stir some more... still mucky. Oh well. Dip. Extract smudge, dribble it over the tabula rasa that is my left brain.

Hmm.
Foreword...

It was a dank and murky day in the sewers which I spent examining the layers of fat around my bellybutton. I couldn't tell you what was ickier, the stench, the brown sludge, me twiddling with my bellybutton or the fact that it was then and there I decided to write my up and comming masterpiece, "12000 pages of statistical facts regarding the layers of fat around my belly button." Suddenly, inexplicably, I remembered the nekkid man running through St. Edwards cathedral screaming about Florence Nightingale. And I knew I had found my source of inspiration.
Such freedom, such temerity! So right then and there, I decided to pay homage to that man, wherever he may be.

Chapter 1.
Right. Well, Statistical fact one about my bellybutton is that it is located exactly 25 centimeteres above the ground when I move around in a squatlike manner. I know this because the sludge in the sewer is 25 centimeters deep, and when I move in this manner it rises up to the very rim of the bellybutton, which, for future reference, I shall call BB. Not to be confused with Birgitte Bardotte.



Is this what you had in mind? I must say, it seems to work. Yes. I can still feel the muck.. err inspiration.

Very good, naj. You have now put me off my lunch.

Well done, old boy.

Excellent, naj. Welcome to the wide world of rancid writing.

Gentlemen, please, join me in writing a novel. http://www.able2know.com/forums/viewtopic.php?p=2107711#2107711

Our combined talents have got to be good for something. What, I dunno.

Do you know that feeling you get when you've just woken up next to the woman you love? You open your eyes, wondering for a moment if last night was real, if your dreams finally came true. You slowly turn your head, praying that the other side of the bed isn't empty and you didn't just imagine it all. When you see her, sleeping there, you know your life makes sense now, that she completes you in every way and you don't want to live another moment without her touch.
That didn't happen to me this morning. I woke up with what was likely the worst hangover in recorded Western civilization. After I stumbled half-blind into the bathroom and threw up until I pissed in my boxers, I flung the soaked things into the tub and shuffled into the bedroom for a fresh pair. That's when I saw her. The she-beast I had shared a bed with last night. Dear God, she looked like a shaved sasquatch. I thought for a moment I'd picked up a walrus at the bar. When I saw the hickey on her neck, I went back into the bathroom and threw up for another 15 minutes.

"Mark, you have a problem."
"I don't think so, sir. Actually, this plan seems foolproof to me."
"No Mark, this plan is only foolproof in the way that even fools would run away screaming when they saw it. Think suicide, only a couple of magnitudes larger."
"Now really Sir, please, refrain from the sarcasm. If it seems so ludicrous, you can be sure that our enemy will never suspect us to resort to tactics like this. We'd surprise them for sure."
"That, I cannot argue with, Mark. You are absolutely correct. We would surprise them. You'd surprise everybody if you go through with this."
"Have I ever let you down sir?"
"Not since yesterday morning 2 pm, when you left Corporal DeLaney's body in Mrs. Barends bunk, no."
"Well, sir, they were engaged after all."
"Trust me on this, Mark, not many people are into necrophilia. In fact, very, very few are into that. The only reason you weren't courtmarshalled is because you are my son."
"Well, I'm sorry if my attempts to better the morale of our troops are unappreciated. I take it they are still angry about my fourth of july fireworks?"
"You really shouldn't have done that at 2 am while on guard duty. Everybody figured we were under attack."
"Well, not for long!"
"No, not for long. The moment they found out you had decided to light up the sky above our camp for twenty miles in all directions, while the enemy was looking for us, they went running away in terror."
"Many still haven't returned, Sir. We are short on men, and I only try to get some additional forces."
"No, Mark. While I realize the idea is tempting at first, I strongly doubt we can summon Chtulhu and order him to make a frontal assault on the enemy."

If I told you I didn't want to do it, I'd be lying. When I saw her, I knew she wanted me to do that to her. Him, too. The way he looked at me, the way he held my gaze. And that midget was just asking for it. The dog and the horse, too. Begging me with their eyes. The couch wanted it more than all of them. And by the time I got around to the vaccum cleaner, I was just tired.

Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean.


LINK

Crap, Tico, before reading the link my esteem for you went way up. I thought, crap, this is really good crap, then I found out the truth and my esteem for you has gone back down to where it was before.

Joe(crappy)Nation

Kwiesselle was not human at all, but she had a hole in the right place. Willowy, seductive, just damn delicious, all night long she had made Dexter glad that he missed the final pod to the mother ship. Later, he reclined on her bed, surveying the topography of the room, which might be described as all sleeping surface, with rises and hollows and pillow-like plateaus, all in pink, everywhere. Then he viewed with satisfaction the pulsing of her naked, bluish pink and black patches, body, which reminded him of a panting dog. He listened to the contented little grunts, and wondered what a woman of her sort could be dreaming of. If Quiads even dream.
He crawled toward the door, curious about the traffic outside, but was dragged back by the tentacle growing out of her tailbone. She hugged him to the full length of her body, smiling in half awake pleasure, her eyes still tucked away in their pockets. The flesh pulsed in a massaging action, thrilling Dexter, rekindling the passion. They spent the next forty minutes assuaging their lust and, finally, were still, enjoying entangled appendages.

It's my opinion that if the author is transparent in the effort to be bad that it is less effective.