The Worst Romance Novel Ever Written

by H. M. Mann

  The mice in his apartment had not disagreed.

  These thoughts of garbage led him to contemplate life, which led Johnny to thoughts of It’s a Wonderful Life, the Christmas holiday classic playing since late October on seemingly every freaking channel on the television. Johnny had wondered why Hollywood hadn’t rewritten and ruined this movie classic with a remake of some kind. After reading the screenplay for Rambo III and deciding that screenplays were pitifully easy to write, he wrote a simple, heartfelt treatment for It’s a Wonderful Death:

  Here we are in 2004. GEORGE BAILEY and his friends are riding stolen skateboards through a strip mall in Bedford Falls, New York. GEORGE does a fancy move on the railing down some concrete stairs. Oh, he’s landed on his privates. His friends, of course, are filming it to embarrass him later on YouTube. There’s his brother HARRY trying the same maneuver and rolling out of control into the path of two speeding cars, one a taxi driven by ERNIE, the other a police car driven by BERT. GEORGE pushes HARRY out of the path of both cars, but BERT’s police cruiser hammers GEORGE into unconsciousness. Close-up of blood on the bumper. Standard “Is he dead or just faking it so he can sue me, the department, the state, and the country?” speech by BERT. Ten seconds will pass before a friend uploads the entire event to YouTube, where it will be famous for about a minute.

  Thirty-four minutes pass until the ambulance arrives.

  GEORGE will spend a year in the hospital recovering from his injuries and will be deaf in his left ear for the rest of his life. A judge will throw out the lawsuit MA BAILEY files against the known universe since GEORGE had been committing a misdemeanor at the time.

  Here we are in 2005. GEORGE works for OLD MAN GOWER in a rundown pharmacy about to put out of business by the CVS Corporation. GOWER’s pharmacy, however, is really a front for an Oxycontin-dealing operation. GEORGE is GOWER’s delivery boy and discovers before a delivery to the Diphtheria gang that GOWER has laced the Oxycontin accidentally with strychnine instead of Johnson’s Baby Powder. GOWER beats the brakes off GEORGE, puncturing GEORGE’s right eardrum, but GOWER shouts “Thank you, George Bailey!” at the top of his lungs anyway.

  GEORGE only blinks because he is now essentially deaf.

  Here we are in 2011. GEORGE attends HARRY’s graduation party. GEORGE dances with MARY, fresh from her third try at rehab. MARY is drunk and thinks colors are speaking Portuguese to her and that Tony the Tiger is real and even kind of handsome when you look at him sideways. MARY doesn’t notice that GEORGE is the biggest dork at the party and finds GEORGE strangely attractive, though he reminds her of a buck-toothed donkey. GEORGE and MARY throw themselves from the stage into the crowd, but no one catches them. Others quickly jump on them, beating them into the floor. MARY loses both of her contacts and then thinks GEORGE looks like a young George Clooney.

  On the way home, GEORGE and MARY sing “Buffalo Gals,” the “new” profanity-laced, female-demeaning rap song (sure to win a Grammy) climbing the charts, and then vandalize a condemned mansion. GEORGE spray-paints a moon on a wall for no apparent reason. MARY, who is still tipsy, does a little streaking, which GEORGE thinks is “very interesting” because this isn’t the 1970s. GEORGE later joins MARY in the hydrangea bushes for a little serious necking. GEORGE gets a rash.

  The year is 2018. GEORGE is running from the law after UNCLE BILLY has stolen $500,000 from the Bailey Building and Loan to pay off a loan shark in Las Vegas. GEORGE goes to the evil Henry POTTER, Harry Potter’s real father, and begs for help. POTTER tells GEORGE that the building and loan isn’t on the list to be bailed out by the government, that GEORGE is worth more dead than alive, and that nobody really ever liked him because he was such a foolish dork for staying in Bedford Falls instead of traveling the world and becoming an architectural engineer and bridge builder.

  So GEORGE leaps off a bridge and dies. On the way down he wonders if he could have built a better bridge.

  Johnny sat back from his laptop and sighed. Though his remake had merit, it didn’t have that certain extra “something” Hollywood was looking for. He had the obligatory blood, romance, and violence. He had the incredible string of “true-to-life” coincidences. He even had the slam-bang, ironic ending for folks wearing black turtlenecks to discuss afterwards over foul-smelling wine and stinky cheese.

  Johnny put his only attempt at a screenplay in the “Garbage” file and did some thinking. He did this every so often when he wasn’t too busy avoiding life. He eventually thought, of all things, about something his adoptive father Phil once told him: “Do as I say, not as I do.” This thought shot off on a tangent to his eighth grade gym class where he heard Coach Phyllis say, “Those who can’t play, coach.” Fine-tuning this tangent, he clearly heard his eleventh grade English teacher Mrs. Phillips say, “Those who can’t write, teach English.”

  He mulled these seemingly random statements in his head for some time until he had an epiphany of epic proportions.

  Johnny almost shouted, but he was worried that his neighbor soaking in the bathtub above him would fart, the sound reminding Johnny of a trombone.

  What, Johnny thought deeply, could I write that I know absolutely nothing about? There are writers all throughout history who have written what they have never done or never could do. That is what I should be writing. That will be my meal ticket out of this—

  The mice had begun their nocturnal march past his desk, several hugging the walls near the baseboards. “There are some lovely cracker crumbs in the kitchen,” Johnny told them, “so leave me alone tonight, okay?”

  The mice looked at him with swarthy, mousy faces.

  Yes. I must use my complete imagination to—

  The mice paused and seemed to blink at him.

  “No, seriously, and they’re Ritz crackers, I swear.”

  I have to write something I know nothing about.

  He flipped through that ancient literary agents guide to the back, scanning the genres until he came to—

  He smiled.

  He nodded.

  He chortled.

  The mice squinted at him as only mice can.

  “I am going to write a romance,” he said to the mice, which were still at his feet and seemed to be waiting for more than cracker crumbs tonight. “It will be a bestseller.”

  The mice didn’t look so sure. These particular jaded mice had heard it all before.

  “No, really,” Johnny said. “I am going to write the best romance ever written because I have no preconceived notions of what a romance should and should not do. I am bringing an absolutely blank slate—”

  The lead mouse yawned, or at least seemed to, crossing his little hairy arms and giving Johnny a blank stare.

  Johnny frowned. “You’ll see.”

  The lead mouse blinked.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, standing and moving toward the kitchen, his mousy friends twelve tiny feet behind. “Just a little cheese tonight.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a container of Cost-Cutter parmesan, sprinkling it near the cracker crumbs.

  The mice hesitated, seemed to raise their shoulders, and began eating.

  Johnny raced to his laptop, deleted several dozen “Garbage” files to make more room on his hard disk, and stared at the blank slate of a screen.

  “This is going to be great!”

  3

  He first needed a romantic title that would grab readers by their jugulars, race their pulses, stop their hearts, curl their toenails, and electrify their loins. His title would have to stand out from all the other wretched and pathetic titles on the shelves. His title had to shriek, “READ MY BOOK BECAUSE OTHER BOOKS WILL GIVE YOU ACID REFLUX, DIARRHEA, AND DANDRUFF!”

  He decided that one-word titles were passé, two-word titles were grandiose (especially if they began with The), and anything longer than three words would be completely over-the-top and might not fit on the cover. He consulted his Roget’s thesaurus for the first time ever and made a list of possible heart-stopping, mind-blowing, and bodice-
ripping titles:

  ABRUPT AVID ARDOR

  ZANY EXCESSIVE CRAVINGS

  DAFT COVETOUS YEARNINGS

  NUTTY RAPACIOUS LONGINGS

  WACKY INSATIABLE AMBITIONS

  IMPULSIVE VORACIOUS WISHES

  UNEXPECTED LOPSIDED DESIRES

  MADCAP GLUTTONOUS PASSIONS

  FRENZIED GUT-BUSTING HUNGERS

  CHAOTIC RAVENOUS INCLINATIONS

  HASTY UNBALANCED INFATUATIONS

  HYPERACTIVE PREDATORY APPETITES

  PASSIONATE ACQUISITIVE ASPIRATIONS

  SUDDEN DISPROPORTIONATE OBSESSIONS

  SPONTANEOUS UNQUENCHABLE OBJECTIVES

  OFF-THE-WALL UNAPPEASABLE REQUIREMENTS

  SPUR-OF-THE-MOMENT GRASPING PROCLIVITIES

  Why do these titles keep getting longer? Johnny wondered. The last eight might not fit on the cover. I have to leave a lot of space on my cover for the longhaired European beefcake and the petite (yet buxom) lass.

  None of the titles did anything but release a little gas from Johnny’s stomach and give pause to the mice licking their paws in the kitchen. Three short, concise words, he thought. That’s all I need. Three words that will tell me what love is.

  What is love anyway?

  As if I’m an expert.

  Well, love is actually pretty insane most of the time. What people in their right minds would want to give up their autonomous existences and blend their lives with others, even for a little while? Who decided that pairing up with someone was somehow better and more efficient than living alone?

  Love is also needy as … as these mice. We need a dishwasher because you aren’t working. You need to pick up your underwear because I’m not touching it. You need to feed Fluffy dog food, not chicken bones. You need to bathe. I need to get my hair done. We need a car that doesn’t set off smoke alarms. You need to get off that couch and clean this apartment, Mister!

  Love is also a greedy little bugger. Give me your attention. Give me more of your time. Give me the remote. Give me the covers, I’m freezing, you insensitive jerk! Give me some respect. Give me another dish towel because this one is alive!

  “Yes!” Johnny shouted, and he deleted the other titles and typed: “NEEDY GREEDY LOVE by

  Johnny Holiday.”

  His elation subsided somewhat as he pondered a pen name. He wanted the publishing world and the reading public to take him seriously, and there weren’t very many men writing romance. He needed a woman’s name that would flutter pulses, cause night sweats, and give readers fevers. He needed something exotic yet accessible, randy yet Republican, tempestuous yet tame, dangerous yet desirable, and trashy yet classy. He brainstormed several possibilities: Ishtar la Fay, Delilah Salome, Cleo Patra, Marta Harry.

  The lead mouse seemed to cringe.

  Johnny pushed back from the laptop. “Yeah, these are dumb, though Ishtar la Fay has a nice ring to it. The press could call her ‘Ishie.’”

  All but the lead mouse skittered away.

  This hesitation was ruining his creative flow, so he quickly typed, “Medusa Jones.”

  What parents would ever name their child Medusa? Unless she was a hairy child. Or liked snakes. Or hated Greeks.

  He kept Medusa, hoping her—his—words wouldn’t turn any readers to stone.

  He checked the clock on the computer. Four hours to sunrise. He had plenty of time to create his hero.

  And what a memorable hero he will be, he thought with glee.

  4

  Johnny mulled over names for his hero while munching M&M’s. He offered a red one to the lead mouse, but it obviously preferred M&M’s with peanuts.

  Rock Hunter? No. I’ll bet someone has already trademarked that one.

  Connor St. John? Hmm. That has possibilities. “Sinjun” is one pronunciation of St. John. Sinjun O’Connor? An Irishman? I don’t know anything about the Irish. Women seem weak-kneed over longhaired foreigners with unintelligible accents, exotic unpronounceable names, and strange dressing habits.

  Yes.

  My hero will be … a Scotsman.

  And his name will be … Robert D. Bruce? Too historical.

  Rafe something? He can be raffish. Is Rafe even Scottish?

  Johnny ran a search on Google for “Scottish boy’s names” and found a long list.

  Adhamh? Exotic, but it looks like a typo.

  Angus? That’s a kind of beef, right? I had better steer clear of Angus.

  Callum? Why’d you call ‘im Callum?

  Alec? I don’t want him to be too smart.

  Broc is cool, but some might think his full name is Broccoli. Vegan readers might appreciate that.

  Argyle is a kind of sock.

  Brody isn’t too bad, but … it sounds almost American.

  Campbell is a type of soup. I’m sure I’ll make him hot and “mmm, mmm, good,” but I don’t want him to be drippy.

  Cathair? You’re kidding. What, did some Scottish mother look at the cat first after giving birth?

  Johnny laughed. The lead mouse shivered.

  Damh? I can’t have the heroine cursing him every time she says his name! Johnny smiled. “Frankly, Damh, I don’t give a you.”

  The lead mouse didn’t smile.

  Fang? He could be a dentist.

  Gunn!

  That’s his first name. He’ll be explosive, loaded, and on target. Whew. Let’s see … “Gunn” means …“white.” No tan for him. Heck, he’s from Scotland. When has the sun ever shone on Scotland since the Romans left?

  He ran a similar search for Scottish surnames to find Gunn’s last name.

  Gunn Bunyan. It rhymes, but it isn’t very progressive or woodsy.

  Gunn Farraday. Gun for a day? No.

  Gunn Mulligan, nicknamed “Stu”?

  Gunn Scarborough. He’d have to be fair and like parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. The women he conquers can be called Sage and Rosemary. Might get right spicy.

  Wait a minute! Here it is.

  Glendonwyn.

  It’s just easy enough for the average reader to pronounce.

  Now for a middle name. Hmm. What was that play? The Scottish play. What weren’t you ever supposed to say? Something about if you say it you’ll get bad luck. Oh. Macbeth. You weren’t ever supposed to say “Macbeth” or something horribly vile would happen to you.

  “Now introducing, the Macbeth, a bloody, cold, undercooked burger from McDonald’s.”

  The lead mouse squeaked.

  “Pretty funny, huh?”

  Gunn Macbeth Glendonwyn? Wait. Macbeth lost his head in the end. Who was the other guy? Macduff. Gunn Macduff Glendonwyn? Wait. Macduff deserted his family, and Macbeth’s henchmen killed his wife and children. Macduff was also a bit weepy and whiny.

  He looked back at the list of first names. He needed something equally exotic and as easy to pronounce as “Glendonwyn.”

  Gunn Adhamh Glendonwyn.

  Perfect.

  Cool initials, too.

  My readers will go GAG-ah over him.

  5

  Now, where will Gunn Adhamh Glendonwyn live?

  Johnny didn’t want Gunn to spend a lot of time at work. He knew readers of romance novels didn’t want to read about the daily grind and the problems people really face. Readers read romance novels to escape reality, not confront it. Therefore, Johnny decided to make Gunn independently wealthy from “The Settlement.” Johnny wouldn’t have to explain where “The Settlement” came from or why and how Gunn earned it. Readers would just have to accept that Gunn had a bottomless supply of cash from “The Settlement” and that money was no object.

  A signature phrase! Johnny thought. Yes! He’ll repeat “Money is no object!” all throughout the novel, endearing him to the woman of his dreams and making him the man of her dreams.

  Perfect!

  Gunn Adhamh Glendonwyn’s multimillion-dollar house, then, had to suck up a lot of his bottomless supply of money. Johnny consulted several real estate magazines, went online and cursed a few ostentati
ous mansions, and pieced together Gunn’s dream house on Heath Cliff Lane: “gated estate of six landscaped acres … 18,534 square feet … two gourmet kitchens … 34x50 heated indoor/outdoor pool with pool house and hot tub … 10x6 indoor lap pool and Jacuzzi … media room with several rows of real theater seats and blackout drapes … library with rolling ladders … state-of-the-art “writer’s pad”/study … an upper and a lower veranda … three circular stone fireplaces … three circular staircases … central vacuum … heated driveway and sidewalks … billiards and game room with pinball machines … exercise room with all the machines … six-car garage … lots of secret passages.”

  Johnny then filled Gunn’s garage with six of the most expensive vehicles ever made. Gunn owned a dark blue Bugatti Veyron, the fastest production car in the world with top speeds of 253 miles per hour. Parked next to the Bugatti was a red Enzo Ferrari. This would be his “date” car. A silver Pagani Zonda C12, which could go from zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds, would be the car he used to get his groceries. His cheapest car was a black Porsche Carrera GT, which could only go from zero to sixty in 3.5 seconds. He would use the Porsche to get his mail from the mailbox at the end of his driveway or do some street racing for fun. For driving around town, he had an H1 Alpha Hummer complete with 42-inch LCD TV and a sound system that Martians could hear. He also owned a crème and chrome ‘29 Duesenberg J Convertible Coupe, a classic he bought on a whim at an auction for $600,000 because “money is no object” to Gunn Adhamh Glendonwyn.

  Now what will he wear? He’ll have to wear tailor-made everything, even tailor-made socks and boxers. Lots of silk. Shoes fitted with GPS locator chips. Solid gold chains. A five-carat diamond earring. A one-of-a-kind Rolex that never needs winding and has a built-in high-definition television.

  Once Johnny established Gunn’s wealth, he had to figure out what made him tick.

  What kind of man is Gunn Adhamh Glendonwyn?