It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

Did you know that there is an annual Best Worst Writer contest? It is the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, and it is named for the man who wrote the now infamous words of my title… “It was a dark and stormy night.” It rewards the writer of the best worst opening paragraph ever.

For your enjoyment – this gem from Jim Gleeson, the 2007 Contest winner:
“Gerald began—but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them ‘permanently’ meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash—to pee.”

Personally, I think bad writing takes skill. I happen to be so skilled, that at times I unintentionally produce material which could, in fact, win me that coveted $250 in prize money!

But is that really what I want?! You are enlightened, and I need your help. I may have bad writing skills, but you have power. The power to save me from myself.

My dilemma: My Journal and I had a creative meeting this morning. My Journal was griping about the dozens of entries which have a capital B in the margin, representing a potential Blog entry. Truth be told, we had quite a row about it. (I hope you read that last sentence with a British accent, because I wrote it with a British accent).

An intervention being threatened, I promised my Journal I would get help. That is where you come in.

Tomorrow, I am going to publish a list of topics I can blog about this year. Then you will tell me what to do. Seriously. Tell me what interests you. Please don’t leave me hanging, as I reach out for help!

“I’m counting on you loyal readers,” she thought as she sat that Sunday afternoon in her somewhat cluttered office, placing the weight of decision-making squarely on the shoulders of casual blog surfers and lurkers, whilst her children happily hummed and played in the other room, the embodiment of all good, even as her lovingly devoted to football husband prepped for the lesson he would teach tonight. “Oh no!” she suddenly exclaimed, as the fact that it was time to start dinner flattened her creativity like a ton of bricks.

Supposing He Found Us?

[This was written by one of my favorite authors, C.S. Lewis, in his book Miracles. It is deep, but simple!]

It is always shocking to meet life where we thought we were alone. ‘Look out!’ we cry, ‘it’s alive‘. And therefore this is the very point at which so many draw back – I would have done so myself if I could – and proceed no further with Christianity. An ‘impersonal God’ – well and good. A subjective God of beauty, truth and goodness, inside our own heads – better still. A formless life-force surging through us, a vast power which we can tap – best of all.

But God Himself, alive, pulling at the other end of the cord, perhaps approaching at an infinite sped, the hunter, king, husband – that is quite another matter. There comes a moment when the children who have been playing at burglars hush suddenly: was that a real footstep in the hall? There comes a moment when people who have been dabbling in religion (‘Man’s search for God!’) suddenly draw back. Supposing we really found Him? We never meant it to come to that! Worse still, supposing He had found us?