Hello, friends. I hope you’re well. I see you’re still wearing your Halloween costume. It’s really great, you look exactly like “Hobo Rosie O’Donnell.” Uncanny, really. What’s that? Oh. Now I’m very embarrassed.
Friends, if you’re reading this blog we can only assume you’re a fan of the written word, or that you like pictures of silly people and YouTube videos. Either way, today we’d like to help spur you to accomplish your own dreams of writing. You may or may not be aware that yesterday marked the official beginning of National Novel Writing Month, which challenges aspiring authors to push themselves to reach the lofty goal of completing the rough draft of a 50,000 word novel by the stroke of midnight on December 1. It’s a daunting task, I think we can all agree. But with some good, old fashioned creativity, it’s absolutely not impossible. Maybe you’ve always had a great idea for a novel you’d like to write. Maybe you’ve always wanted to write a novel, but just didn’t have the idea yet. Today, in honor of National Novel Writing Week, we thought we’d toss out some basic Writing Prompts for the UK Fan, to get your creative juices flowing and help you take the important first steps toward your literary stardom. The way this works is very simple: just take one of these lines as your opener (we’re giving them to you) and head onward and upward from there. As always, we’re here to help. So good luck! We look forward to reading your finished manuscripts on December 1 and, as always, have a splendid weekend, gang.
As the clouds swirled ominously overhead and fans ran screaming from the Georgia Dome, Ramon Harris looked up into the heavens and knew there was only one solution; he had to punch that tornado back up into the sky.
“Stop ringing that damn doorbell!” shouted Bobby Knight as he tied his terrycloth robe together and trudged down the stairs to the door, throwing it open to see an eighteen-wheel tractor trailer in his driveway man in a crisp suit reading out of a manila folder. “Mr. Knight,” he said, “I’m here to inform you that according to the last wishes of your great aunt, you are now the caretaker for these seven-thousand kittens.”
Billy Gillispie gulped down four Motrins, swirled the water around to sate his wicked case of cottonmouth and looked around the palatial office to the sounds of crowds cheering outside his window — what on earth had happened last night, and how did he become the President of French Guiana?
Everything was going according to plan until Roy Williams came running out of the crowd, tackling Al Roker to the ground and grabbing the microphone. “Well,” he said, snarling into the NBC cameras, “it looks like I’m in charge of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade now.”
Tony Delk grimaced as he high-fived Derek Anderson and cocked his shotgun, saddling up onto his horse and pulling a ski mask down over his face. “I don’t know about you,” he said to the 6”6’ shooting guard, “but I didn’t come all the way to England not to steal the crown jewels and escape in a rocketship, so let’s do this.”
Dumbledore peered over his glasses and managed a meager smile, resting his hands in his lap. “You’ve come a long way since your first days at Hogwarts,” he said, “and you’ve learned a great deal here. But I’m afraid it’s time for you to face Lord Voldemort once and for all. And I believe you can do it, Bruce Pearl.”
“Well hi there, what’s your name?” he had asked, only sixteen seconds earlier.
Patrick Sparks heard the gentle hum of the time machine in the corner as he traced a line with his finger along the small of his lovers back, whispering gently into her sleeping ear. “You’re a very tender lover, Mrs. Lincoln, but now I have to go…it’s time to murder Adolf Hitler.”