The challenge was to write the worst novel opening and I failed. Personally, I would not want to read 300 pages of this, but it was voted to good to be bad. My mistake was writing it in first person present; my playwright instincts kicked in. I still think it’s a terrible opening for a book, but not a bad monologue.
Well, it sorta, kinda started one day—I’m not the best teller of stories, keep in mind—but it was the day I got my new Foose wheels for my Mustang convertible. My red darling—My 54 birthday—yeah, that’s right it was my birthday! The girls love it when I drive that car with my belly. Oh, man, the calls and whistles I get. It’s a six pack or so. I was driving down Towsend, no wait not Towsend, Towhead Road; at least that’s what I call it because of all the blondes down there—they are always flagging me down wanting in my car and other things, but I do right and don’t pick up girls who could be my daughters if I had any. Don’t get me wrong, I like to look, who doesn’t? Those lithe, firm bodies with cushiony boobs, bulbous butts and sun kissed blonde hair that smells like cocoa butter and cherry red lips that taste like bubble gum—not that I would know. I don’t do that. Anyway, I was driving down Towhead Road thinking over my book idea of an unborn vampire spawn—cub? Tadpole? I must Google that—contemplating suicide in the womb—egg shell?—because he just might be the next new Jesus messiah—How do the unborn, undead kill themselves anyway? I need to Google that. I was driving with my belly for a group of older chicas, 30s or so, when a squirrel ran across the road and I hit it. I mean I hit it dead. That sucker was flatter than a pan cake. Smoosh! Flat. This-this blonde bimbo starts chasing me down the street screaming murder. And I do mean murder. I’m so used to girls chasing me that I didn’t realize at the the time she…she was the love of my life…
Actors—feel free to use this as an audition piece. Please let me know if you do and how it goes. It is around a minute.