JunkMonkey
Lord High Vizier of Nowt
We need a place to post offences against orthography. I love bad writing - just as I love bad films. There is something about watching incompetence in action that is both inspiring and incredibly funny at the same time. The struggle against overwhelming odds is one of the basic building blocks of western art. Comedy is is the failure to walk past the banana skin. Tragedy is the failure to avoid schtupping your mom. Sometimes the way the storyteller fails to tell his tale becomes a tragedy in itself - or, more often, a comedy.
So in the spirit of the mighty Thog's Masterclass What are your favourite bits of really awful writing?
To start things off here are a couple of moments from my current 'There's only so much of this I can take in one go' read; Shattered Kingdom: Book 1 by Angela J Steffort.
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Her eyes darted from surface to surface , marvelling at the ornate carvings , burgundy and gold patterns, and the thick rug covering most of the dark stone floor. She marvelled till her chest hurt from the ambivalence of it.
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"I am a Child of Varla," she repeated, implying precisely what it meant and reminding the four people in the room of exactly that.
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Gandrett didn't know why she did it, but she reached out her hand, taking Mckenzie's in her own. The woman's emerald eyes told of the nights of crying over her lost brother, the days hoping for his return, and the moments of disappointment, followed by those nights of crying again.
So in the spirit of the mighty Thog's Masterclass What are your favourite bits of really awful writing?
To start things off here are a couple of moments from my current 'There's only so much of this I can take in one go' read; Shattered Kingdom: Book 1 by Angela J Steffort.
**********
Her eyes darted from surface to surface , marvelling at the ornate carvings , burgundy and gold patterns, and the thick rug covering most of the dark stone floor. She marvelled till her chest hurt from the ambivalence of it.
**********
"I am a Child of Varla," she repeated, implying precisely what it meant and reminding the four people in the room of exactly that.
**********
Gandrett didn't know why she did it, but she reached out her hand, taking Mckenzie's in her own. The woman's emerald eyes told of the nights of crying over her lost brother, the days hoping for his return, and the moments of disappointment, followed by those nights of crying again.