Post the beginning of your novel

I stared at the caricature for some ten minutes. It was a drawing of some kind of a suited performer juggling golden plates in front of an audience, with a bunch of broken plates resting on the stairs behind him.
"What did he mean by this?", I finally uttered, hoping for someone to elaborate.

I would specify that they're dinner place. When I read golden plates I thought of plaques for some reason.

He stepped into the building. Prisms hanging from the chandelier reflected the dim light of the sun coming from the strange oval shaped windows, creating an eerie atmosphere in the otherwise dark room. He had no idea how he ended up here but he felt at home.

why didn't he just practice with something more durable, balls perhaps?

>outright stating it was 'creating an eerie atmosphere'

so whats this about?

Kek, this.
You might as well write
>He was experiencing interesting events you would like to read about.

The fall was only from a stepladder, 4 or 5 foot at most, took less than a second from ladder to paving. The resultant injury was of greater depth and sustained duration.
A clatter n; a thunk. Forthwith his mind became a furious blur, the ability to cogitate slowly now defunct.

Dennis was a decent bloke, a warm soul in a cold part of the country. Always a kindly smile and humane eyes. Decorator by trade, doing it since he was 16, very good at it by all accounts. Always a professional finish, his interaction with customers never less than exemplary, friendly, funny, laid back charm. Never too much, never too little.
So it was with great surprise the changes that occurred after that short tumble from the ladder, mid door frame, using satin not gloss, nicer finish. The door got finished by another decorator, he wasn’t as good, or as nice.
The cliche for someone a little bit off or too intelligent or just slightly removed from what is considered normal by the mainstream of society is often to ask if they got dropped on their head as a child. Wether Dennis fell or was “dropped” by something is a question for the philosophers and theorists to ponder. I shall simply attempt to narrate some of what I know and experienced within the sort time Dennis and I’s lives intersected.

It was the height that got him. It was always the heights.

Keep going user

I always knew I had a big dick. Now other people were going to find out too.

Waking up to a loud crash rarely means something good is happening. It’s never “CRASH! Mom made pancakes!” or “CRASH! We decided to adopt a Golden Retriever!”

Honestly these were the first lines I've ever written but you are right, it's shit.

Don't keep going user

(I mean keep going, but don't take the impression what you wrote here was good.)

This is really one of the best copypastas. What is it about those in medias res opening lines that's so cringy? And why are they so popular?

Only one enemy remained, 5 if you counted the gods (Thor, Zeus, Jesus, and Vishnu).

I don't necessarily think it is any good, but would you care to elaborate on why you think it isn't?

Last night was the night when "Dancing in the Moonlight" became the song I killed a man to.

Really desperate writing. Your opening sentence should be, "take this seriously, please, please, please."

This is a novel about the writing of this novel.

VROOOOOOOOOM VROOOOOOOM REEEEEEEEEEER

Jerry pressed his foot down on the gas pedal.

VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

I'd always been in this water.

my diary desu

Fair enough criticism I guess, the tone is kind of deliberate. With the second paragraph shifting into a much more casual style. Maybe you're right though.

Hey, that's my project!

desu? my diary desu

He rubbed the swishbockler once more.

Call me Ishmael.

Once he dipped the double donger in gravy, it slid all the way down his throat with ease. His mother, obviously incensed by this sight at christmas dinner, kicked him in the nuts.

That's freakin' awesome, oh wow! That's legitimately hilarious, if that was the first sentence of a book I'd want to read more immediately. Sweet!

>Grandmother died today. Or tomorrow I cant be sure.

I'm ripping off Camus and setting "the stranger" in a 1960s detective story with heavy lovecraft undertones. It might be pretentious and lame, but its my idea-baby, and as we all know, those are hard to kill.

Everyone has ideas,, they're nothing special. Attaching yourself to them is one of the worst things you can do.

lol with that art style and colour palette I thought this was Maoist propaganda

There ain't nothing like a good nut.

would rather stab myself in the neck than read
would read if I was threatened with a stab to the neck
best ones in the thread

>would read if I was threatened with a stab to the neck

Still better than nothing I guess.

>would rather stab myself in the neck than read
you just read it, reddit

I meant the entire text, dummy

It was the entire text, no one actually wrote a novel starting with "there ain't nothing like a good Ishamael in gravy"

You do know the term
>would x
or
>would not x
is used as a rating system here on Veeky Forums, you moron?

Dry lightning watched her off the road.

not the first line in anything, m8

why do you copy other people to such an extent? I think you should hurry up with the whole neck stabbing

You're one dumb motherfucker

You can't even string together a coherent sentence lol, bye now

Mine eyes have seen better days. If you were to truncate one of my limbs, you could count every ring. You'd count so many that you'd count them again, just to be sure.

"Snow was falling,snow falls"
It sounds pretty horrid when translated

I arrived back from the vacation to find my house had burnt down.

I swam in the rapids.

I hope none of you actually write opening lines as blunt and headlinish like some of these. Hook lines are for redditors.

Bright sunlight beat down upon the passenger's seat as I eased up on the gas pedal. I could feel the residual heat rolling over my arm even as the sun began to slowly sink from it's zenith. To me it seemed almost as if the sun was giving a cosmic last hurrah before making it's evening disappearance act. The sign up ahead told me that I was nearing my destination. A dilapidated little church so like many others that I had passed in rural communities sat vacant on my left, and a little further down a fenced off playground had fallen into such a state of disrepair that I was left to wonder if there were any children who played on such dangerous equipment. Ahead of me what had once been hills and mountains had sunken down to form hollows and valleys. As I continued downward I expected to see signs of habitation in the derelict rural town, but no such signs manifested themselves. On the right I passed by the foundation of what had once been a building. There were a handful of bricks making up part of what used to be a wall, but most of the bricks had been pulled apart and cannibalized to build something else. What something else might have been was not readily apparent to me as I drove through the rotting little town.

I was here on the unlikeliest of missions. This weekend I had plans to arrive in my hometown for my father's birthday, but I had found the time to take an extra day in order to hunt for an ideal present. A few discreet phone calls to my mother had eventually spilled on the retiree's new hobby: fixing up classic cars. He had an ancient Chevy Impala that he was trying to rebuild with as many original parts as possible, but he couldn't quite find some of the key components. A few google searches and phone calls to used parts stores later and I had a lead on what to get the old man for his birthday. Most of the used parts stores on my way to home had been cleaned out of classic parts in preparation for the summer, as my father wasn't the only retiree who found pleasure in rebuilding cars from his youth. Various store owners had referred me to junkers and scrap yards, and it was following a trail of scrap yard distribution that I had found what seemed like the holy grail of scrap.

>evening disappearance act

Damn I shouldn't write on opium, even when I'm imitating Lovecraft.

He was a man, more or less.

WorldstarRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Thanks, stole it

As I stand here facing the firing squad you're probably wondering how I ended up in this situation.

>Things were very spook, he felt scared. He looked, and jumped. There was very scary stuff LOOMING over his head. He turned his head up. AH! He yelled. It was very scary.

I've hugged the desert.

>edgar wright

It becomes something like a dream sequence, not really scary desu

I don't have it yet...

Shadow had done three years in prison. He was big enough and looked don't-fuck-with-me enough that his biggest problem was killing time. So he kept himself in shape, and taught himself coin tricks, and thought a lot about how much he loved his wife.

The last sentence of the first paragraph uses way too many five dollar words. It detracts from the flow.

Why not:
> His thoughts have lost all definition, and come slowly, threatening to not come at all.

Only one enemy remained; two if you counted God.

From the dumpy potato to the succulent french fry, nothing satisfies hunger quite like food, thought Ken as he waited for his meal to arrive.

The leaves danced that morning, gently sashaying in the icy winds of dawn.

You got a chuckle out of me.

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster. To me, being a gangster was better than being President of the United States. Even before I first wandered into the cabstand for an after-school job, I knew I wanted to be a part of them. It was there that I knew that I belonged. To me, it meant being somebody in a neighborhood that was full of nobodies. They weren't like anybody else. I mean, they did whatever they wanted. They double-parked in front of a hydrant and nobody ever gave them a ticket. In the summer when they played cards all night, nobody ever called the cops.

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into a Golden Retriever. CRASH. Mothers making pancakes today. Or was it yesterday, I can't be sure.

The book is a little different.

>From the first day I walked into the cabstand I knew I had found my home—especially after they found out that I was half Sicilian. Looking back, I can see that everything changed when they found out about my mother. I wasn't just another kid from the neighborhood helping out around the stand. I was suddenly in their houses. I was in their refrigerators. I was running errands for the Vario wives and playing with their kids. They gave me anything I wanted.

>Even before going to work at the cabstand I was fascinated by the place. I used to watch them from my window, and I dreamed of being like them. At the age of twelve my ambition was to be a gangster. To be a wiseguy. To me being a wiseguy was better than being president of the United States. It meant power among people who had no power. It meant perks in a working-class neighborhood that had no privileges. To be a wiseguy was to own the world. I dreamed about being a wiseguy the way other kids dreamed about being doctors or movie stars or firemen or ballplayers.

Later they found out Henry was lying during a lot of the book and he had actually directly killed people. He always insisted it was Tommy or Jimmy.

"So there I was, eating man-ass for the third time this week."

Also the ending is great but not as good as the movie.

>The hardest thing for me was leaving the life I was running away from. Even at the end, with all the threats I was getting and all the time I was facing behind the wall, I still loved the life.

>We walked in a room and the place stopped. Everyone knew who we were, and we were treated like movie stars with muscle. We had it all and it was all free. Truckloads of swag. Fur coats, televisions, clothes—all for the asking. We used Jimmy's hijack drops like department stores. Our wives, mothers, kids, everybody rode along. I had paper bags filled with jewelry stashed in the kitchen and a sugar bowl full of coke next to the bed. Anything I wanted was only a phone call away. Free rented cars under phony names and the keys to a dozen hideout apartments we shared. I would bet thirty and forty grand over a weekend and then either blow the winnings in a week or go to the sharks to pay back the bookies. It didn't matter. When I was broke I just went out and robbed some more.

>We ran everything. We paid the lawyers. We paid the cops. Everybody had their hands out. We walked out laughing. We had the best of everything. In Vegas and Atlantic City somebody always knew someone. People would come over and offer us shows, dinners, suites.

>And now all that is over, and that's the hardest part. Today everything is very different. No more action. I have to wait around like everyone else. I'm an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a shnook.

Then from the epilogue:

>Today Henry Hill and his wife live somewhere in America. As of this writing he has a successful business and lives in a $150,000 two-story neocolonial house in an area with such a low crime rate that garden-shed burglaries get headlines in the weekly press. His children go to private schools. He and Karen have their own cars, and she has embarked on a small business of her own. He has a Keogh plan. One of his few complaints is that he cannot get good Italian food in the area where he has been assigned to live by the witness program. A few days after his arrival there he went to a local "Italian-style" restaurant and found the marinara sauce without garlic, the linguini replaced by egg noodles, and slices of packaged white bread in plastic baskets on the tables.

Smell is a thought, too. So, he figured that the best way to keep the mind readers away was to maintain a feedbag of fresh shit - which also solved the problem of evidence in any public defecation charges facing his royal homelessnessness.

Nice

He dragged the broken body of what had been a wrestler out of the pit and dropped its weight on a pile of others, and its blood left streaks on the sand and on his hands and on his feet and it was warm.

-my novel about pankration

I like this a lot

Decent

As the spring morning faded to a winter noon and then a summer afternoon and finally a mild fall evening, my limbs rotated counter-clockwise.

Samantha knew, of course, that she didn't look like a prostitute and could never act like a prostitute, so she waited for her best friend to raise this objection before she would reply with the phrase "market differentiation." Or was it product differentiation? She'd have to find her old accounting textbook and improve her skills in Excel.

When we ask the question: "Would you be mine?", or answer it with a delighted "yes!", seldom we realize that we have just made the hardest or the most ruthless promise: I, your significant other, promise to you, my beloved, that I will stand by you, strong and kind and warm until the day I die!
And if not, I promise to hurt you, embarrass you, degrade, betray and discard you in the cruelest way possible.

It is a game of the highest risk. I was a fool for playing it, and it is a fool's job to understand why.

Malcolm hated. It was the only thing he knew he was good at.

youtube.com/watch?v=LBQ2305fLeA

Afraid of life and afraid of death, Max avoided both.

That's stupid as all hell but I'm intrigued.

It was during the last turn in summer’s death throes whereupon I returned to the country. The eternal heat that had metabolised me and enshrouded me before my departure from the suburbs dissipated with the careening autumn breeze as I stepped out of the car.

Holy... I want more.

If virtue is the continuation of aesthetics into the moral plane then Detective Chief Inspector Dirk Valentine supposed that Fanny "Crystal" S. Wooley must have been a very virtuous woman indeed.

It's from my pastiche of noir, with werewolves.