The Room, concise.
The Room, explained.
The Room, trailer.
The Room, a scene.
Showing posts with label bad writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
How to Write Badly Well
A blog.
Begin your novel with the protagonist getting out of bed and seeing that it is raining outside, which perfectly mirrors his life
Jake opened his eyes and heard the rain battering against the outside of the glass window. Well, he thought grimly, it’s raining outside, and it’s certainly raining in my soul, which is about as inside as you can get.
It had only been seventeen days since he had lost his job and been dumped by his girlfriend, all of which made him very sympathetic without actually having to establish him as a character. Ever since that fateful day, he had been hearing the drip drip drip of his hopes (raindrops) and aspirations (hailstones) tumbling down onto the corrugated iron roof of his memory before disappearing forever down the drain of missed opportunities.
Begin your novel with the protagonist getting out of bed and seeing that it is raining outside, which perfectly mirrors his life
Jake opened his eyes and heard the rain battering against the outside of the glass window. Well, he thought grimly, it’s raining outside, and it’s certainly raining in my soul, which is about as inside as you can get.
It had only been seventeen days since he had lost his job and been dumped by his girlfriend, all of which made him very sympathetic without actually having to establish him as a character. Ever since that fateful day, he had been hearing the drip drip drip of his hopes (raindrops) and aspirations (hailstones) tumbling down onto the corrugated iron roof of his memory before disappearing forever down the drain of missed opportunities.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
I guess there's no hope for me after all, Chip.
If Ron Miller described the ending of Battlestar Galactica
The final fight with the Cylons was a fallen summer star. Hyacinth. Elastic. It was a watery beer fart. It was the dying gasp of a Viking warrior before proud Valkyrie women carried him of to Valhalla. It was constipation.
The Cylon colony ship was a dancing anus, deer-like and waiting. It was Orson Wells in Paris, 1955. It was strong coffee with too little coffee. Potter's clay and TARDIS. Gold, Frankincense, Mir. It was Stan Lee's gobbler.
How the Galactica was unable to jump after that final space-shift was weak like a gull's cry in a hurricane. Puissant. Agile. Inexplicable. It's hull had the sheen of Charlie after a coke bender, strippers hanging of his port side, listing into the sun. It was Orwellian
Starbuck had the appearance of wild horses running over amber cliffs when she inexplicably disappeared. Dust motes kissed the air she left in her passing. Lee's express was that of a retarded child having a staring contest with Keanu Reeves, officiated by Christopher Reeves. It was a baying wolf, crying out for wages the dock foreman owed him so he could feed his family back on the farm. It was gay, like nine dudes blowing ten dudes.
Adama crying over Roselyn's death was stewing beef marbled with thick white tracts of fat. Bloated, kind of cloying. He made a grave for her with his tears, big fat crocodile jobs with dreams puffing up their middles. It was the Gettysburg Address delivered by a french whore. It dreamed of Ryleh gilded in baby's breath and roses.
Her pubes were ranked clone troopers, fire teams and assault. They blossomed to life as the enemy approached, fey winged aliens. They were the loss of all meaning in a rush to finish. And i don't even know what this metaphor points to.
(And that's about all I have right now.)
The final fight with the Cylons was a fallen summer star. Hyacinth. Elastic. It was a watery beer fart. It was the dying gasp of a Viking warrior before proud Valkyrie women carried him of to Valhalla. It was constipation.
The Cylon colony ship was a dancing anus, deer-like and waiting. It was Orson Wells in Paris, 1955. It was strong coffee with too little coffee. Potter's clay and TARDIS. Gold, Frankincense, Mir. It was Stan Lee's gobbler.
How the Galactica was unable to jump after that final space-shift was weak like a gull's cry in a hurricane. Puissant. Agile. Inexplicable. It's hull had the sheen of Charlie after a coke bender, strippers hanging of his port side, listing into the sun. It was Orwellian
Starbuck had the appearance of wild horses running over amber cliffs when she inexplicably disappeared. Dust motes kissed the air she left in her passing. Lee's express was that of a retarded child having a staring contest with Keanu Reeves, officiated by Christopher Reeves. It was a baying wolf, crying out for wages the dock foreman owed him so he could feed his family back on the farm. It was gay, like nine dudes blowing ten dudes.
Adama crying over Roselyn's death was stewing beef marbled with thick white tracts of fat. Bloated, kind of cloying. He made a grave for her with his tears, big fat crocodile jobs with dreams puffing up their middles. It was the Gettysburg Address delivered by a french whore. It dreamed of Ryleh gilded in baby's breath and roses.
Her pubes were ranked clone troopers, fire teams and assault. They blossomed to life as the enemy approached, fey winged aliens. They were the loss of all meaning in a rush to finish. And i don't even know what this metaphor points to.
(And that's about all I have right now.)
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