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For the past 28 years, a group of masochists at San Jose State University have sought out submissions for the worst writing in the world.

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Meet Molly Ringle, the Seattle Writer Who Wrote This Year's Worst Sentence

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For the past 28 years, a group of masochists at San Jose State University have sought out submissions for the worst writing in the world. Named after the 19th-century British writer who first penned the now-cliched line "It was a dark and stormy night," this year's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest award went to Seattle's own Molly Ringle, an author who only writes terrible fiction in her spare time and won for the way she analogized a wet kiss to a thirsty gerbil, which you can read after the jump.

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Molly Ringle swears her books aren't nearly as bad as her award-winning sentence would indicate.
For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss--a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.
Holy crap! It's like reading "Twilight" all over again!

I e-mailed Ringle today to find out how writing one shitty sentence might change her life. She says she's not expecting much, just maybe that the publicity might move a couple copies of her first published novel (plug plug plug) and that her new-found infamy might result in "a statue built of me out of Aplets and Cotlets at the Puyallup Fair."

She also provided Daily Weekly with two other sentences she sent in to the Bulwer-Lytton people, proving that no matter her ability to write good, Ringle can write bad with the worst of them.

Dale "Gruff" MacCleod knew a storm was coming, not only from the red hue of the clouds in the sunrise over the bay, or his sixty years of sailing experience, but because he had checked the weather report on his iPhone this morning before leaving the cabin.

The sun's rays spilled over the windowsill, illuminating the bed and the sleeping couple, who lay still and peaceful, Rachel's arm outstretched and her knuckles resting upon Jacob's cheek, as if she had been frozen at the precise moment of punching him in the face.

 
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