Like most writers, I strive to get better every day. I work on mechanics, voice, pacing, plotting. I read advice from other writers. I speak my dialog to make sure it’s real. I aim for tight, crisp prose.
So why do I have so much fun with really really bad writing? I enjoy creating outrageous character names, stilted conversations, and absurd events. And who doesn’t love appalling metaphors and cringe-inducing imagery?
Here’s one I just made up:
Now that Anton Krakamolitov had finally, after 20 years of relentless, single-minded, but soul-consuming searching, found the underwater cave of Eiberhorn the Serpent, that dreadful thing of which women dare not speak and men only whisper and about which children shudder in fear while cowering in the darkest recesses of their medieval cabin-like domains – the very beast whose undulating, quivering surface of resplendent, sequin-esque, purple scales is impervious to even the finest forgings of weapons-grade iron into implements of destruction that shame even the mightiest superarrows of yore – he began to have second thoughts about what he was preparing to undertake, which caused him not inconsiderable anguish (given the aforementioned 20 years of his hard, bitter life he burned away to reach this moment), mostly because now, as he gazed down at the near lifeless body of Pedro Morganthish, whom he had brought as a sacrifice for Eiberhorn the Serpent (for who was Anton Krakamolitov but a pious devotee of the beast, since his all-consuming quest was, if one knows about worldly things, very like that of one who commences a ruinous religious pilgrimage?), he began to feel the pangs of a remorse that are often indistinguishable from food poisoning and are so often associated with making a human sacrifice of one who killed another’s grandfather, in Anton’s case being Braddox Hammer, the greatest warrior on all of Odinhood, because, though Anton loved his grandfather, he knew that Pedro – poor, dying Pedro – was only defending his recipe for mint pie, without which the Morganthish family would be worth less than the dirt between the treads on Anton’s boots (had Anton’s boots not rotted away years ago), making Anton, who was still looking down upon the gaunt, suffering Pedro, realize in his heart turned stony from all these wasted years of questing and not brushing his teeth that he could not, in good conscience, throw Pedro to the heinous devilfish called Eiberhorn the Serpent, the beast that Anton believed was hiding in its hell cave fathoms below the surface of the black, mirror-like, seaweed choked water, but that, in fact, was no longer down there at all, as it was just now breaking said water surface, with its ghastly maw gaping wide and lunging too quickly for Anton to do anything other than scream in horror as the massive, drooling demon chomped down, crushing Anton, Pedro, and the half-bullet shaped sailboat in one, singular, pointless-quest-ending bite.
405 words. Let’s see what you’ve got!