10 Nov 2009
I have a secret desire to write novels. Ok, that’s not such a secret now. But when I’ve hung up my copywriting boots, my plan is to lock myself away in a drafty attic and bash out a bestselling novel in the style of, I dunno, Jackie Collins or someone. Yes, that’s it. I could write a bonkbuster set in fast-paced and uber-glam, ermmm, Wimbledon. Yeah, that might need some work.
Anyway, in this month’s Writing Magazine, columnist Stuart Palmer discusses some literary howlers that should never have made it into print.
There’s hope for me yet.
‘The old man opened his eyes metaphorically.’
‘I edged away from her, my hand tipping her face up again, finding her eyes and holding them.’
‘An expression of inexpressible shock crossed his face…’
‘Nothing short of a machine gun could have stopped Gog in this first outburst! He was finally subdued with tear gas.’
‘My face drew back from my skull as if I was vomiting and tears ran from my eyes like blood from gashes. I was sad…’
‘There are sort of pimples all over it, and slime oozing from its skin. I just can’t describe it properly.’
‘He looked at the freshly shaved faces around the table. They were men.’
Read any blunders lately? Share them here.