I agree, Cashmere, but it's fun. I was snorting as I ended mine.

Hee.

I'm noticing that writing bad is where style comes in. There's more than one way to write badly. (And I probably just broke a grammar rule there that is also a form of "bad" writing, but some of the rules confuse me. I need a remedial.) It's not just being over-prosey with the adverbs, it's also stating the obvious, over and over. I just can't seem to do that, something in my brain resists. Must.Try.Harder.

The flame-haired Commander smiled, her amethyst eyes glinting with amusement. She picked up the goblet crafted of glowing green Lycanium, mined here on Lasnos by the serving class, the Ga'a'a'aks, who were remarkable for their large stature in comparison to their overseers, the Ha'a'a'ch'a, who were smaller but had one more arm and a greater understanding of the sacred texts of Lycak which they shared with the true ruling class, who could be mistaken for Ha'a'ach'a by off-worlders, for the only difference was their use of the familar tense in the Lycanian Lypish dialect used in business dealing. "This is delicious" she said in flawless Lypish and downed the thick, smoking liqueur.

It's not just being over-prosey with the adverbs, it's also stating the obvious, over and over.

I think there are many different ways to write badly, and not all bad writing has each type of clunker in it. An excessively adverbed novel might not fall prey to stating the obvious. A piece that clunks along awkwardly and dully might not run amok with adverbs.

The beauty of bad writing is the multitide of ways in which it can be done.

The beauty of bad writing is the multitide of ways in which it can be done.

Herewith, clunky and with adverbs. Oh, and it's kinda porny.

Puddle of Love

She lay there. Legs open. Quivering. Wet. Waiting for him. Could she wait much longer without the deluge of her juices drowning her in the uninhibited lust he inspired in her?

He prowled. Slowly. Sneering. His biceps bulging and his abs rippling as he crawled up the bed to her juicy joining. His cock dripped, precum puddling in her salty-sweet seasoning.

Like a five-meter platform diver he plunged his pulsing member into her clasping core, the depths from which he might never emerge whole. Stunned, they looked into each others eyes, their souls, and drowned in the love they saw there

So, one bad drabble was about a dude and his desert; here's a family and their beach:

* * * *

Every summer, for as long as they could remember, and, indeed, Maman assured them, for as many summers as Maman herself could remember, meaning long before any of them were born, or even a possibility, really, their family journeyed to the beach.

The air, the sand, the water -- it was their lifeblood. The very pounding of the surf, the waves crashing rhythmically on the shore over and over and over, since time began, which would continue until the end of time, was like the collective family heartbeat.

The beach, they knew, was essential to their family -- it was a part of their family -- it WAS their family.

Man, I don't think there's anyway you could bury any of those folks in the sand and make it stick. Somehow, the beach made me think of the Borg. You come here, you will be assimilated.

We are the beach. Resistance is futile. Bring your umbrella and surrender.

(That's almost a travel agency ad....)

The thick night air was laden with the powerful scent of jasmine. It was always like this in August. Notes from a faint tinny piano, so accustomed to floating effortlessly in milder weather, fought their way through the heavy haze and fell, gasping, on our ears. Nothing ever travelled well this time of year -- not people, not animals, not even music. No, the tropical atmosphere was too much for all but the toughest individuals -- or most foolhardy. They were the ones who laughed in humidity's wet face and asked for more, tempting fate as they turned off their air conditioners.

Oh, Robin!

The Ga'a'a'a'ak.

I almost peed myself.