Friday, March 30, 2007

How not to begin a romance novel

Author and Fog City Diva Brenda Novak is doing a take-off on the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. I just thought up an entry and submitted it, then decided to post it here and give you folks a cheap laugh to kick off your weekend:

With spurs jingling as his boots thumped the warped, sun-baked boards of the sidewalk, Stone Hartley briefly interrupted his bold swagger, turning sideways to squeeze his broad, powerful upper body through the doorway of Wild Lily's Coffee-Bean Corral before continuing to the bar, where he met a woman's startled, doe-brown eyes, then shoved back his Stetson and spent a full minute appreciating her spectacularly unsubtle curves before grinning like the love-'em-and-leave-'em rascal he was and ordering a triple-shot mocha latte and a long, slow, wet kiss.

Yeah, maybe that's a bit steamy for an inspirational romance writer. Don't tell my mom, okay?

If any of you enter Brenda's contest, feel free to pop back over here and show off your genius in the Comments.


Katie said...

Hefting my genius over in a shopping bag to share it with you. ;-)

(I *adore* Bulwer-Lytton!!)

Unlucky-in-love Carolene Marten had spent her ten-year tenure at OmniLab Inc. being bounced from one dowdy scientist-with-god-complex to another – “But starting today,” she said, hiking down the neckline of her labcoat to reveal the motivation for her 3-week “medical” leave – a once-underwhelming bosom now revamped to resemble two flawless round-bottom flasks tucked into a lacy corner of the storage closet, “it’s my turn to do the bouncing.”

Brenda Coulter said...

Oh, Katie, you're baaaad.

Are you entering the Bulwer-Lytton contest? I did, for the first time ever. After I sent the first line quoted here in my post, Professor Rice e-mailed to ask if I had any more. So I sent this:

Standing before the open wall safe containing a measly two hundred dollars in cash and a pile of documents representing no less than three mortgages on Throckmorton Manor, Candy Apple Throckmorton emitted a wail of disappointment and turned an accusing glare on her husband Reginald, who she'd just sneaked up on and shot in the right temple as he dozed in his favorite chair by the fireplace; and as she recalled his favorite saying, that you can't get blood out of a turnip, she wondered if the neat, bloodless hole in his melon meant the old geezer had been dead already, possibly from that heart attack he was always threatening; or if she, Candy Apple Throckmorton, had indeed been married to a turnip--which, come to think of it, would sure explain a lot about their sex life.

Katie said...

Funny, Brenda!

I never have entered B-L. I'm too awed by it. Maybe I will this year!

My favorite ever:

"Captain Burton stood at the bow of his massive sailing ship, his weathered face resembling improperly cured leather that wouldn't even be used to make a coat or something."
Bryan Semrow
Oshkosh, WI

Katie said...

Okay! I entered some. But I'm afraid to post them online. I'm afraid they might not be bad enough. And then people would read them and be like, "This bad writing is terrible! It's totally the wrong kind of bad!"

It doesn't make sense, I know.

Brenda Coulter said...

Yes, actually; it does make sense.