Books 651-655

So, October didn't really happen there. 

And then November didn't really happen, either.

And December, 

let's not even get into December.

Nothing happened.

Well, things happened

But they didn't happen happen

cause we didn't look at any books. 

That's really sad when you think about it. 

 

And then, worst of all,

nothing happened yesterday.

What was so important about yesterday?

Yesterday was the two-year anniversary of 

Books On My Parents' Shelves.

To borrow a term from the cactus garden, 

it was the Books blogday.

 

You know what, though?

It's okay.

We can make up for lost time

and celebrate 

with a new game.

 

(This is where you all cheer exuberantly with happiness.)

 

(No, really.

I'm serious.

Cheer.)

 

(Okay, fine. 

Don't cheer then.)

 

Anyway, our new game is called

"First Sentence."

 

Like all of our games, 

the title is pretty self-evident. 

Which is a good thing,

especially since I don't think I'd remember more complicated titles.

But, as most of you know,

the first sentence of a book can decide it's fate.

 

A bad first sentence,

and editors and agents won't go on to read the rest of the book. 

 

Readers won't check the book out of the library.

 

Authors get disowned by their families 

and are forced to live out the rest of their days

in Writer Coal Mines, 

where they are forced to spout famous literary quotes 

while mining the internet for new words to add to the Oxford Dictionary

in an attempt to atone for their crimes.

Many die a horrible death from the Hashtag Plague.

 

Okay, 

so that might be a bit of a stretch. 

But bad first sentences still really suck. 

 

So, in celebration of 

Books on My Parents' Shelves

second blogday,

I've come up with some first sentences of my own,

based entirely off of the cover images.

 

 

 

They had always known secret dangers lurked behind the sunflowers,

but there, on that first bright spring morning,

Agnes knew the legends were true.

 

 

Readers, be warned:

This is not a tale for the faint of heart, the slowest of growers, or the zoophobic;

this adventure we are about to embark upon 

is only for those with the strongest of stomachs.

 

 

His namesake had always claimed

"It wasn't easy being being green,"

but the truth was it was.

It was so very easy.

 

(Okay, so that one was two sentences. 

I failed at the game, but it was worth it.

So very worth it.)

 

 

It was the eve of the apocalypse, 

but no one really seemed to mind —

after all, the sun was shining

and the underground bunker was almost complete.

 

 

Grandfather knew it was wrong to raise the wolf as a boy,

but somehow, despite all his best efforts,

he just couldn't find the nerve to tell the lupine the truth;

it was a secret he knew he would take to his grave.

 

 

 

And now I'm off to the coal mines.

 

Happy belated blogday!