The Worst Romance Novel Ever Written (5 page)

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 ostentatious 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?

6

He has to be a manly man,
Johnny thought.
He has to be an alpha male, almost a caveman because that’s what women really want. So, he’ll have to … smoke cigars.

Yes.

Gunn smokes Cuban cigars, and he smokes nonstop like Dickens-era London … or even like a 1974 Vega.

Yes.

He even chews on the nubs, doesn’t notice the flecks of tobacco stuck in his teeth or resting on his lips, and spits often.

Yes!

Gunn is a real man’s man that no woman could ever refuse.

Gunn appeared before Johnny’s eyes as he typed: “Kirk Douglas’s chin … Paul Newman’s piercing blue eyes … Will Smith’s ears … Brad Pitt’s nose and squint … Clint Eastwood’s fists … Arnold Schwarzenegger’s build when he was on steroids and wasn’t masquerading as a governor and “fitness expert” … Robert Redford’s smile … Sean Connery’s voice, complete with Scottish brogue … Johnny Depp’s “pirate” hair from Pirates of the Caribbean including swarthy mustache—but not the eyeliner …”

Johnny couldn’t make him too perfect. He had to make Gunn somewhat believable, so he typed: “Gunn has a scar on his left eyebrow and a broken nose from an errant javelin thrown by his American nemesis when Gunn competed for Great Britain in the decathlon at the Olympic Games in China in 2008. He has a slight gap in his top front teeth caused by a mountain-climbing (Mt. Everest) accident as a teenager. The gap easily holds Gunn’s cigars. His right bicep is slightly bigger than his left since he drinks right-handed. Gunn masks his strong body odor by bathing in copious amounts of Cool Water cologne. He has stale breath from cigars, cruel thin lips, and chest hair so thick his barber has to trim it twice a month with hedge-trimmers.”

Johnny was pleased at Gunn’s appearance, but Gunn still needed a personality. He decided to make Gunn a “bad boy” because he knew all women wanted a bad boy and a roughneck to reform: “Gunn is an alpha male, an ‘insufferable,’ ‘incorrigible’ jerk who flares his nostrils, sneers, and growls all the time. He never calls his current woman by name, preferring to use pet names like ‘minx,’ ‘doll face,’ ‘my little chickadee,’ and ‘baby cakes.’ Gunn distrusts women because of his mother, who force-fed him dry Ovaltine, and his exes who tore out his heart, stepped on it, and fed it to neighborhood guinea hens. At 6-3, 225, he is a martial arts master in every martial art ever. Sadly, he also is a tortured soul with a haunted past …”

What kind of haunted past can I give him?
Johnny thought.
Maybe he tortured defenseless kittens when he was a boy and feels guilty now. Maybe he set fire to the class gerbil. Maybe he left a Sherpa to die on Everest, or he had to eat the Sherpa to survive. Maybe he just secretly roots for the Chicago Cubs or likes river dance music or actually liked the taste of New Coke or wishes Rick James would have made another album.

Johnny sighed. The sun was rising, and he knew it really didn’t matter what Gunn’s tortured past would be. He doubted he would even reveal it in his book.