I was recently home visiting my lovely family, and doing normal things like going to the San Francisco Giants season finale, and watching Buster Posey’s introductory press conference, and drinking Pliny the Elder, and picking blackberries. Things of that nature.
One night, over a delicious (and largely homegrown) dinner with my parents and partner, we got to discussing the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.
For those who don’t know, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is truly delightful contest that, to use its own description, “challenges participants to write an atrocious opening sentence to the worst novel never written.