Tomb of the Unknown Sentence

I was feeling uninspired and creatively dulled. Oh, I could write about anything easily, really. I could draft a predictable romance or some stupid dragon fantasy. I could tell a cautionary tale or even take a thrill ride on a stream-of-consciousness piece. I could involve animals for cuteness, irony, metaphor, or even to champion animal rights. Space battles? Easy!

I could wield maudlin, chagrin, regret, irony, epiphany, metaphor, and even the dark in ways that are good but, regrettably, had all been done before. Dark and stormy nights are for pussies! The best of times really are the worst.

I'm yawning.

All that's been done before. Where's the fun in such things?

There are no new twists to be had. Writing—good writing—is not just recycling. Emulate Hemmingway? There are still Hemmingways around in his estate to pay a lawyer for a cease-and-desist. Rip off Vonnegut? Yeah, just try. It won't even be close. Channel the NYT best sellers? You don't have a head start, so forgeddabout it. Magic, witches, wizards vs coming-of-age, thrillers, or whodunnits? I'm not just yawning.

I'm desperate.

I must write something that's never been read before. That's the only way I can climb Mazlow's pyramid. I want a sentence that has never been uttered to leap off the page and hook the stupid agent who insists on that "good fit."

The opening line would have to be unique, totally novel, even startling but, most importantly, be something that's never been said or read before—in English or any language.

And so I begin...

He looked like a millionaire on a horse. (I don't exactly know what that means, but a millionaire on a horse must look some good.)

Quick, hand me the piano! (That depends on who's saying it. You wouldn't want a large percussion instrument to fall into the wrong hands. After all, it's not just black and white.)

The way I see it, Hitler had a point. (No, wait, someone said that recently, although Grammarly reports, "This text is well-written.")

I loved her like a cactus. (Although I could wrap a whole novella around explaining how that was true.)

Even the cows laughed at my thumbs. (Has anyone ever tested the cow demographic about thumbs? Gotta think.)

We made love on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day as the bullets flew over us. (I'm afraid I can't write that, even if I want to write something that's never been written before. There are limits to both the laws of physics and the rules to lovemaking that cannot be broken. Well, maybe the laws of physics.)

We made love on the beaches of Normandy the day after D-Day, the spent bullets in the sand no more bothersome than the sand fleas. (Now you're talkin'!)

On the day my father died, I beat Mick Jagger bowling, two games out of three, blindfolded. (Imagine the exposition derived from explaining that Mick Jagger is my father and that I used The Force to beat him.)

My wastebasket fills with single, crumpled sheets, each with a single impossible sentence. Some sentences, it turns out, are dead on arrival. I throw a match in, the impossible sentences are, again, impossible, as the paper ashes float away.

No wonder I'm never a good fit. And no wonder I'm no damn millionaire on no damn horse! And now I wonder about my thumbs.