I recently found one of my abortive attempts to write prose fiction, dated July 14th, 2000:
Tim brushed the hair from his eyes. He looked down, lifted his left heel off the ground and put his weight on the ball of that foot, rotating it lazily in the dust.
“So how’s Lynn?” He met Casey’s look from beneath his brow, his face nearly perpendicular to hers.
His hair was in the way again. Casey began to make her best non-threatening smile, but then thought better of it, pulling her lips back over her teeth instead. Nothing she did was going to make him relax.
“Lynn’s great. I talked to her last week. She’s seeing somebody."
As you can see, I didn't get very far. To the best of my knowledge, that was my last try. Perhaps a novel waits inside me, but it may die of an overdose before the debutante ball.