I was reading a book review in Modern Reformation magazine about this vampire series by Stephanie Meyer, The Twilight Saga. The books are targeted for teenage girls and so it makes references to “marbled abs” and chests. The reviewer quoted his wife: “If I have to read about how Edward’s chest looks like it was carved out of marble one more time, I’m going to retch.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. What is popular is often times so… base, even if these books do put forth such noble traits as self-restraint. Yes, you guessed it. All the main vampires in our series display self-restraint so they are “good” vampires, a.k.a., “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”
I thought all vampires and witches were always bad, not just sometimes bad. Silly me. The vampires have to be good so that the main vampire, Edward, could fall madly and passionately in love with Bella, a non-vampire. This is in the midst of all kinds of sexual tension and teen angst, along with “bad” vampires trying to kill Bella and even a few werewolves thrown in for good measure.
In view of all this, and the silliness of “marble abs,” I was wondering if I could perhaps write some fiction like this too? I was thinking that if the pastorate calling didn’t work out, maybe I could write a few cheesy novels for teenage girls and make a couple of million, retiring to some place warm, with lots of golf and happy-go-lucky days.
Probably not, but here goes. My characters: Jane and Bernstein.
Jane noticed her ball was resting a wood chip. This would make the putt far more difficult. She would either have to move the wood chip, moving the ball, and taking a stroke, or just power over the wood chip. Otherwise, it would be a simple putt for par. She looked up and there he stood on the edge of the green. She had failed to notice him before, even though he was wearing a lime green shirt with equally flattering plaid shorts.
Her heart beat. It beat again. She noticed his soft and shiny hair, with a green tint from the bright, green lime shirt, and her heart… beat again, and continued to beat throughout the story. This time, however, it beat quicker than its usual pace. She noticed the the thrilling feeling she had in her lower extremities, or was it the onset of diarrhea.
“Hello Freckles,” he said. This was odd because with her voluptuous skin, she had no freckles.
“Hi,” she said. “I didn’t see you standing there, well, at least not until I saw you. Then I saw you. You are standing right there.”
She felt silly. How could she have said anything so silly. She feared he would think she was a vapid teenager, or that he might rape her and cut her body up into small pieces to feed to the alligators in the nearby ponds. Her mind raced. She felt as if she was on the edge, the edge of danger, the edge of the green, the edge of missing such a simple putt.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m standing right here.”
Just then, the wind kicked up a breeze one might expect out of the thrusters of the space shuttle on lift off, and blew his shirt up around his neck. Jane couldn’t help but noticed his abs. They looked as if they were chiseled out of Cheezwiz. She was thinking of how it looked orange and squishy as he tried to pull the shirt back down around his mid section.
The wind ceased and the weather returned to it’s normal, balmy day.
“My name is Jane,” she said.
“Hi Jane. My name is Bernstein.”
“Bernstein,” she asked. “Do you go by Bernie?”
“Absolutely not. That’s hardly romantic. I’m Bernstein.” He said the name with such pride. To him, there was only one other name more romantic than Bernstein, but Fabio was already taken so his author had to come up with a name as equally tantalizing.
“Do you want me to help you with that putt?”
She could make the putt on her own. She was the best player on the high school golf team and knew she could power through it. Yet, the idea of him helping her, rubbing up against her, her shoulder pressing up against the soft, Cheezwiz of his chest, touching her skin as it all became tingly like it’s supposed to do in these type of stories, was too much.
“Yes,” she said.
He walked over to her, around behind her and wrapped his arms her waist, grabbing her putter. She smelled his breath for the first time. It was dragon breath. The smell of someone who lay sleeping with his mouth open wide, snoring loudly and uncontrollably after eating cheap tacos. It stank. She ignored it and waited for her skin to tingle. It didn’t.
Would this be the romance of her life? At 16, romance was only something she had read about in cheap and tawdry romance novels. Could this be it?
He grabbed her hands to help her with the putter. His hands were sweaty and clammy. She marveled at the idea of her sweat mingling with his, cold, clammy hands. His hands were soft and weak, like her dying grandfather’s hands. She knew it had to be a sign… To be continued?
So, keep my day job or press on as cheap, tawdry romance writer?