askye, I wrote my first novel at 15 - in Italian. It was all about a hippie on a commune, discovering the Answers to the Great Questions.

I defy anyone to be angstier than that. And that's without how badly I probably mangled the Italian.

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My college one is embarrassing to me now.Not really due to angst, that was high school poetry. But I didn't know what I was doing except Maupin. Badly. And all of my scene changes were Homicide jump cuts, practically. But somebody still stole it; maybe they were hoping for porn.

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askye, I wrote my first novel at 15 - in Italian. It was all about a hippie on a commune, discovering the Answers to the Great Questions.

I defy anyone to be angstier than that.

At thirteen, I wrote mine about a 15 year old Christian girl who got pregnant (she and her boyfriend somehow gained access to the swan boats in the Boston Public Garden at night, and got carried away) and had to tell her family.

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Cindy, BWAH! You may win this one.

Especially since, when I read "Hitchhikers Guide" ten years later, my first reaction was "Forty two! The Answer is 42? Why in hell didn't I think of that?"

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I read too darn many of them, too, at 14. By the time I was 17, they made me want to barf. Until I started reading fanfic, I'd forgotten how awful some of those stories could be.

Ohmigod. Diana Palmer. My mom, sister and I were obsessed with her (my sister and I were in our early teens, but Mom? I dunno, she was on a lot of drugs for panic attacks.)

Always a virgin, always the UBERmale, always got married.

And when I hit about 16, I started always throwing her books across the room.

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See? That's why I haven't done a bad writing drabble, yet. I have an unfair advantage. *g*

The bad writing here has been splendidly bad. I am so enjoying it, and have needed the laughs.

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Oh, my.

Speaking of bad writing....remember that "you can't make this shit up" story about the Russian model turned dom and the murder of her Swiss lover in Geneva?

It's back in the news.....

And I still couldn't make this shit up.

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BAD WRITING DRABBLE:

Her heart was heavy. Too long, she had yearned for his touch. Too long, he had eluded her soft, white grasp. He was the pinnacle of her every sweetest fantasy--his strong chin, his rugged features, his penetrating blue eyes. O, to be his truest love! O, to feel those manly hands run across her skin! But she knew it was all for naught--he was beyond any simple girl's reach. He was a bright star in her heavens--a fiery orb she knew would only burn her if she let it. Yet, like a bug drawn to the tempting light of the zapper, she was pulled to him.

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Hee! That's hysterical with the old style poetic O! and the bug zapper simile all in one drabble.

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Yet, like a bug drawn to the tempting light of the zapper, she was pulled to him.

You know, you could make this even worse with the addition of just two words:

Yet, like a helpless bug irresistably drawn to the tempting light of the zapper, she was pulled to him.

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