If Nothing Else, I Will Have at Least Written This Sentence: Sentences from an Unwritten Novel

He had never really been able to discover a decent antidote for writer's block.

She was aware that there were forests where trees and plants and other organisms wouldn't grow.

He had entered one of those sterile waiting rooms where all creativity was put on hold.

He couldn't resist a glazed or chocolate-frosted donut.

She constantly reminded him that his generalizations had to be drawn up over and over with each new set of circumstances.

What the films had taught his generation is that there should always be music, at the very least noise--in the background, middle ground, foreground: that silence is artificial.

What stood out and remained with most people was how the cowlick at the crown of his head matched the colicky behavior at the heart of his personality.

It wasn't uncommon for him to become totally bogged down with his blogging.

She argued calmly and confidently and carefully before the executive board, as if cruising through a neighborhood filled with playing children, that terrible, self-absorbed drivers were spurring the need for rapid advancements in driverless automotive technologies.

When he switched from Google to Google+, he wound up minus something.

She gaped out of the rain-streaked window contemplating how she could help the men feel more comfortable with her extremely high level of knowledge and expertise without furthering their deep-seated feelings of inferiority.

He shuddered to think what other intelligent life would conclude about them based upon topical analyses of film and television studies.

The made-for-television series confirmed what she already knew--that there was as much misogyny embedded in the culture as sugar on sugar-coated cereals, or poppy and sesame seeds on everything bagels, or cinnamon and sugar on cinnamon donuts.

He hoped that if he fell flat on his face there would be a banana cream pie on the ground.

He was hoping to discover the hallmark of quietude in the country beyond the orange groves.

Ideas came to her mind the way mail arrived in the mailbox.

When the alien interrogation was over, they left her in a soft clearing in the woods about a mile from her house with some nice parting gifts.

Who didn't chase a cheese cake muffin with a strong cup of coffee?

And for his sins, he only allowed himself to eat sugarless cereals in the morning (not true).

They met on their lunch breaks--two artists in their own rights--and wandered together through the museum and talked, vaguely aware of the art.

She insisted on starting each day with a cup of French-pressed coffee, a croissant and the voice of the diva.

He never grew tired of his Pop Art books.

It was all French toast to him.

She treasured the moments he was able to break out of his lugubrious philosophical stand up.

If after all of that laughter he found nothing funny, then he would at least bask in the satisfaction of having put forth a Herculean effort.

He was definitely in over his head, but it felt familiar.

She laughed in his face.

He felt good about it.

He knew that this country's biggest issue was greed, and that many, many other issues could be tackled if greed could be eliminated from the equation.

She wasn't down with all of this fancy schmancy bullshit.

He told the young mother on the cafe patio that she might want to cover her children's eyes and look away while he devoured his chocolate chip muffin.

After all of the blood work came back, his doctor concluded that he was suffering from a poetry deficiency, and, after subjecting him to a brief questionnaire, prescribed Ginsberg, O'Hara, Koch and Wakoski.

She understood him better than anyone else.

Between the scrambled eggs and fluffy pancakes, he discovered a Slim Jim --not quite what you were thinking.

Sometimes he wanted information; sometimes he wanted entertainment.

Now, as he aged, a certain cache of memories began to strike him as too absurd or outrageous to have actually occurred, and yet the very unlikelihood of the substance of these recollections is precisely what gave them a sense of credibility, despite the unreliability of his memory, because he knew, to his dismay, that his imagination would be hard pressed to create the lines, shapes and values of these particular shades.

He thoroughly enjoyed not how but that  Ke$ha rhymed "saber-toothed tiger" with "warm Budweiser."