So you think you’re a bad writer?

Hi everyone,

I’ve mentioned the annual Bulwer-Lytton bad writing contest before, and many of you know about it anyway, but son Jeff just sent me a recent post featuring the best of the past ten years and I’ve had several loud laughs. Here’s where to find the 2017 winners in case you’d like a few chuckles and/or groans of your own:

Here are a couple of examples:
6. Jordan Kaderli

Betty had eyes that said come here, lips that said kiss me, arms and torso that said hold me all night long, but the rest of her body said, “Fillet me, cover me in cornmeal, and fry me in peanut oil”; romance wasn’t easy for a mermaid.

7. Rephah Berg

On reflection, Angela perceived that her relationship with Tom had always been rocky, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape, a degree of annoyance that Angela had now almost attained.

I’ve been tempted to enter this annual contest for decades but never seem to get around to it. Maybe we should all enter it this year. They even have a children’s division. Maybe, just maybe, one of us will be good enough to be that bad.

7 comments on “So you think you’re a bad writer?

  1. Bad Writing Blues

    Ah – with written words we try,
    to picture and explain.
    But sometimes words don’t play just right,
    and forth spring words that pain!

    Be careful with those adjectives,
    judicious with each noun.
    A single misplaced adverb can
    bring the whole work down!

    Watch out for verbs that push too much,
    don’t stretch your thoughts too far.
    Spare readers from a jumbled mess,
    which most “bad” writings are!

  2. It was as if the treetops outside their curtained windows were being thrashed about in the black, salivating jaws of a storm-crazed rottweiler even as the strobe-like lightning strikes snatched the homeowner’s attention from his wife’s screams to the night of the press photographers, their exploding flashbulbs illuminating the shocked faces of his lawyers and those hapless movers whose Steinway grand thundered down the courthouse steps; and into his trembling hands: the slippery infant who, barely nine years hence, would be known worldwide as astronomer/piano-prodigy, Wendy Wigglesworth.

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