I attempted to write fiction yesterday. "Attempted" is the key word in the previous sentence. The opening went something like this:
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...
...a dead chicken.
Yes, that's where my head went. And no, it wasn't autobiographical. But thanks for asking. Surprisingly, numerous pages of awkwardness followed such a poetic introduction.
An epic novel in the making, I tell you.