Bad Novel project, part thrip
Created | Updated Dec 31, 2008
I know it is irritating to literature fans and fanatics that I might be suggesting that a novel is just a bunch of lies strung together. To ameliorate that situation and butter the butty otherwise, I will also put forth the idea that the writers of the best love songs are not very lovable.
We return you to our irregularly evacuated programme:
She had always had problems with the tense of plurals.
Sitting still, he forced his mind to move.
He had never heard an advertisement that he hadn't believed he couldn't have written or at least edited better.
The toddler ran and sat down, ran and sat down.
At 3AM she could think of nothing to do, even sleeping, that would not be interrupted by the alarm clock at 8.
She read unevenly, pausing at awkward constructions, feeling how stupid the author must have been to finish at all costs, even at the expense of the reader's possibly valuable time.
No answers came to her, though she trimmed the questions into plausibility.
The cat circled the truck warily, sniffing the tailpipe on each circuit, peering into the wheel wells and examining the treads.
Soon his toes begged to be on another foot.
The commissioner's desk vibrated under the onslaught of the insistent phones.
He saved the last shot for the stereo, aiming carefully and knocking the Montovani record off the turntable in pieces.
The wine had a swampish air to it that was reinforced by the first stupidly expectant sip.
The TV was showing two channels simultaneously and the result was much better than one would hope.
