Caught with my rants around my ankles

I’ve noticed a distinct inability to rant coherently in myself lately.  There was once a time when I could spout a rant with the best of them.  Some were well thought out.  Others… I just came off as surly and uncaring. 

Now?

Not so much.

With the ranting, that is.  The surly and uncaring part?  Still have that in droves.

Don’t get me wrong: there are still so many things I hate that I could fill a book called “Things I Hate.”  It wouldn’t exactly be a best seller, but I could fill it up.  Spoiler alert – waffles would definitely NOT be on that list.  Waffles!

That said, every time a good rant starts to form in my head lately, a funny thing happens.  The whole damned thing just doesn’t seem important enough to rant about anymore.  Maybe I’m maturing?  Maybe I just don’t care as much anymore.

In the meantime, hang in there with me.  I’ll get that old rant machine rolling again.

Bad Opening Sentence of Day - January 22nd

It is a sad state of affairs when a young father's propensity toward extramarital activities with colorful women comes to light, but not quite as sad as when the father's resultant illness causes his daughter's first word to be chlamydia.

Bad Writing can feel so Good...

Another candidate for world's worst opening line to a novel:

As he ran his hands down the stripper’s smooth ebony body in the VIP room of Mother Nature’s Gentlemen’s Club, Carter Platt, a local literary critic, bit the inside of his cheeks hard to stifle himself from laughing at the ironic notion that he had passed over the athletic Nordic beauty “Sunshine” and the robust Russian “Thunder” just so he could fully experience a dark and “Stormy” night.

Writing the World's Worst Novel...

So 2012 is here and I've been thinking a lot lately about how much writing I haven't done recently. I suppose it's all understandable, what with the new position at work dominating nearly 70 hours a week and the general home responsibilities... but still... no post in over a year? What the hell, man?

Deciding I needed to remedy this situation, I went out the other day and bought a new writing computer. A decent little laptop that I can use to get a little something done everyday on.

That said, I've been checking out the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Definitely seems like something I could get on board with...

So today's post is just a little something simple. A musing for a terrible opening sentence to the world's worst novel. No real refining or editing, just something I thought up while getting some work papers done.

After skipping a pebble across the pond's tranquil surface, I sat hunched over in the rickety rowboat staring at a thousand reflections left by the rock's ripples as they gazed back at me, conveying an image of grief, solitude, and emptiness and I found myself accompanied only by a single thought - an epiphany, really - gracing my mind: sometimes the fastest way to find yourself abandoned by those you care for most is a scathing remark, a bean burrito, and a wicked fart.