Try to convey more in stage directions than is physically possible

SUSAN: (PERSPICUOUSLY) I wonder where Alan could have got to?

NIGEL: (LUCIDLY) Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you.

ENTER ALAN, WHO HAS JUST UNDERGONE A PROFOUNDLY MOVING RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE, CAUSING HIM TO SEE THE NATURE OF THE UNIVERSE UNFILTERED BY EMOTION OR DESIRE.

ALAN: Hi.

SUSAN: (INCONGRUOUSLY) Alan! There you are!

NIGEL: (SUBTLY INQUISITIVE, YET MAINTAINING AN AIR OF EXAMINED SANGFROID) Hi Alan.

ALAN BRIEFY CONSIDERS HOW BEST TO SHARE HIS NEWFOUND CLARITY OF PURPOSE WITH HIS FRIENDS, BEFORE REACHING THE CONCLUSION THAT THEY MUST EACH FOLLOW THEIR OWN PATH AND SEEK THEIR OWN TRUTH.

ALAN: Hi.

Subtly weave your own opinions into the narrative

Simone was late home from work that day, something that could have been prevented had the local council consulted more widely before implementing their scheme to fully pedestrianise the city centre. At the moment her key turned in the lock of her front door, it was 6:36pm and the streetlights, despite the fact it had been getting dark for the last hour, were just beginning to blink on (another result of the local authorities seemingly being in the pocket of environmental pressure groups, she supposed).

At first, she didn’t see the body slumped in the middle of her flat, bleeding onto the carpet in a way which would undoubtedly require the use of cleaning products whose sale was restricted due to their “hazardous” chemical content. She just wanted effective carpet shampoo without having to consider every so-called endangered fish in every scummy pond, she thought as she screamed in horror.

Regard editorial input as a personal attack

Dear Dream-Crusher,

Many “thanks” for your letter of so-called advice dated the fifteenth of this month. To be honest, its all I’ve come to expect of the elitist snobbish publishing industry and it’s closed-shop mentality. You say that my characters “could do with more development”, but I can assure you that I wrote everything down about them that anyone needs to know to understand the story – Jake in particular is an interesting character because he actually has no “back-story” at all due to him losing his memory in the electrical fire in the magnet factory (chapter six).

You talk about so-called “presentation” with comma’s and apostrophes, but, aren’t these exactly the kind of thing that your supposed to deal with instead of the creative mind of an author? Its a disgrace that you can run a business like this when I am the lifeblood of your so-called business as an aspiring author and not just another so-called celebrity biography. And as for you saying you are "interested" and your request to “see another draft” before you "pitch" it to publishers, I wouldnt do you the honor of letting you read my work after how badly I have been treated by you.

Yours disgustedly,

Penny Scriber (gnome de plum)

Create an entirely unsympathetic protagonist

World-renowned author Joe Stockley fumed silently. The queue was moving at a snail’s pace and the elderly woman in front of him was the snail in question, except for being dry and withered instead of slimy. He laughed grimly to himself. Just imagine, he thought. Me, one of the most famous men in the world and winner of three Nobel prizes, waiting in a bank queue like some kind of workaday idiot!

If it hadn’t been for the watchful eyes of Jixitia, his sultry, mysterious female companion, he might have considered pushing his way to the front. As it was, he was keen that the pneumatic yet exotic ninja should report back to her shadowy employers that he was a compassionate man of the people. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to impress her personally, he reflected with a sly glance at the rear of her catsuit.

Use rich, evocative dialogue tags

‘Good morning,’ exploded Mr Petiska warmly. ‘How are we all today?’

‘Well enough, thank you,’ gushed Diedre, not looking up from her desk.

‘And how about you?’ impinged Mr Petiska, turning his mighty vocalisations towards the timid figure in the corner of the office.

‘Sorry?’ shrank Ingrid, vacillatingly.

‘How are you?’ recapitulated the manager in a decidedly gruff timbre.

‘I’m, um...’ Ingrid temporised, ‘um, well. I feel a bit...’ she tergiversated.

‘Never mind that!’ burgeoned Mr Petiska. ‘Back to work!’

‘Yes sir,’ Ingrid ovinely subsumed.

Elaborate on your metaphors

She stood out in the crowd like a bird of paradise among a flock of crows, her bright, elaborate feathers instantly catching Dave's eye like the ornamental flank plumes of the Paradisa apoda. Unlike this particular bird, however, she was not native to Indonesia and did not have a diet consisting mainly of fruit, seeds and small insects; rather, she dined on the finest culinary creations at exclusive restaurants and lived in her luxurious central London townhouse which, as Dave was about to discover, was not constructed from fern fronds and moss.

As soon as he saw her, Dave could tell that they were about to engage in a highly ritualised mating dance, as is common among the sexually dimorphic birds of the genus Paradisaeidae, although hopefully this would not involve him competing with other males in displays of plumage, gymnastic prowess and bill strength, in the manner of the Curl-crested Manucode (Manucodia comrii).

Treat the whole thing as a game

Dear readers,

To celebrate two months of How To Write Badly Well (you take your milestones where you can get them in this game), I’m throwing the doors open, Willy Wonka style. The brief is simple: write up to 300 words as badly well as you can and email them to writebadlywell@gmail.com. I’ll post the best badly-well-written entry on the blog and send the author a copy of Who Writes This Crap? by Luke Wright and myself.

That is all. Good day.

Learn about syllepsis, then refuse to stop employing it

Joe Stockley was in an expensive sports car and deep trouble. This time, he had really let his mouth and his exotic foreign lover run away with him and it was getting beyond a joke and his immediate circle of friends in the form of rumours and speculation.

As he ran a red light, the conversation back in his mind and away from his troubles, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of rising panic and the soft matte finish of his hand-stitched leather steering wheel. Angelica had been absolutely right and his wife for fifteen years, so why was he running scared, these kind of risks and this deadly gauntlet of illicit entanglements?