My Own Dark and Stormy Night...
Down at Jimmy Akin's blog, a contest has been initiated along the lines of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, to find who can write the worst opening line for a novel. My own entry:
That cinammon scent eminating from the kitchen of his murder victim (or was it coming from the victim herself? "So hard to gage these things accurately!", the ruthless, bloodthirsty, and utterly depraved, yet still vaguely sensitive and caring, killer said to himself) reminded him of his mother, who also smelt of cinnamon.
The sad part is, were I to show that sentence to the American population, a significant number would probably think that I had just crafted one of the deepest and most complex characters in the history of literature. This would be why I tend to avoid books on best seller lists like the plague. For all such people out there, I have but two words: Aristotle's Poetics.
+Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam+
"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months."