First lines of the novel I didn't write today:

”As a boy, he used to slip away for hours on end — through the thicket of cottonwoods and Russian Olives, down near the river. He'd sit on the sandy bank, pick at the half-shells of freshwater mollusks, and seek out stones flat enough for skipping.

He was good at skipping stones, but he kept practicing. He practiced like it was an Olympic sport, his path to fame and fortune…”