How hard can it be?

I’ve decided I’m going to try and write a book which will make me some money. Over my life I’ve read hundreds, if not more, of terrible books which must have been really easy to write.


First: what about one of those US police detective series (I went through a Patricia Cornwell phase when I was about 13)?


            “God damn it,” I said. “That guy is a grade-a, super-deluxe jerk. I should put his head through a wall.” Colleen appraised me silently. Colleen O’Bally was a long cool drink of water, a fiery Irish redhead with a killer body and a sly sense of humor. She gulped back the dregs of her cup of joe – black with plenty of sugar – and dragged hard on her filterless Marlboro Red. Her appearance belied a keen intellect which plenty of eastside criminals and cops alike had underestimated. She had graduated magna cum laude from Westington State Police University and had a Master’s degree in criminology from Barrington Lutheran College. She was also a dab hand at electronic darts and could rustle up the meanest bowl of chilli this side of Texarkana.


Writing like this is actually much harder than trying to make it good by my own standards. What about one of those menopause books?

            I chose a beautiful yellow dress made of wonderful floaty material and my lovely white shoes. Richard wasn’t going to see me at anything but my best! I put the finishing touches to my makeup just as the taxi pulled up.

            “Wow, you look beautiful!” Maureen said with a happy smile. Georgie played around her legs as I grabbed my bag.

            “Where are you going mummy?” Georgie asked, her little face looking sad.

            “Mummy’s just going out,” I said in the third person for some reason. “She’ll be back soon, you can play with auntie Maureen can’t you?” Maureen picked her up and brought her into the living room.            

            “Come on you,” she said fondly. “Let’s watch your Princess Poggle video.”

            “Yeah!” shouted Georgie happily. I smiled quietly to myself as I closed the door. Once Princess Poggle was on she’d wouldn’t even notice I’d left. I breathed in deeply before heading out to the taxi. It was time to face Richard.


Or a shitty fantasy book?

            Ironaxe swung his battle weapon, Grudgegrinder, into the horde of approaching orcen. He dispatched two of the misshapen cave dwellers in an instant, bellowing “vengeance for the slain at Mourn’s Peak!” as he smote them. The burly dwarf stepped forward and engaged another two orcen, the hairy, brutish creatures snarling in fury as they jabbed their pikes at him with deadly intent.

            To his left Morningstar plunged into the fray, using her deadly speed to parry and twist between the ferocious lunges of their slavering foes. “Back, foul beings!” she called in her strong, clear voice.


Or a romance for old women?


            The Count’s eyes flashed.

            “Leave us now, Carvalho,” he commanded his faithful consigliere. The trusty retainer bowed slightly and left. The Count turned to Mélanie.

            “My lady – my heart burns for you.” Nameless pain mixed with vanquished joy in his deep brown eyes. Mélanie ran to him and dropped her head onto his sturdy chest. She inhaled his scent, a wonderful aroma of horse sweat, leather and tobacco, as tears sprang to her own eyes.

            “Luis, my love – ” she began, before sobs choked off her words. “Why can’t we be together? Oh, say you’ll make it alright!” She gave in fully to the sadness and wept silently as he held her.

            “If there was any way we could be together, fair lady – but you know my father will never allow it! My marriage to Joanna is set for less than a threemonth from today.”


Or a ghostwritten sport biography?


            We used to have a real laugh up at Clayburn. There were some real characters knocking around, that was for sure. Donald Boyce and Frank Poggington were two of the worst for playing tricks on people. They were always up to mischief, but it was all in fun. In ’87, after we won the Ratner’s Cup with a three-nil victory at John Gland Road, Boysy and Poggser played a prank on the gaffer, Ian St Ian. Ian loved his cars and would always turn up to training in a Merc, Beamer or Porsche. Straight after the victory Poggser ran out to the secure car park – he didn’t even take his boots off! – and slashed the seats of Ian’s car that day, a lovely metallic mustard BMW 3 series. They had just come out, the new E30, and the gaffer was really proud of his new car. Well, Poggser and Boysy soon cut him down to size! Poggser then apparently ran back in to the changing room to get Boysy. The place was chaos, people throwing champagne round and singing, so no-one noticed them slip out. Boysy smashed in both of the front windows and did a shit on the ground next to the floor, before wiping the shit all round the bottom of the steering wheel and under the door handles! The two of them were absolutely barmy. Poggser then stole some ground marking spray from the groundskeeper’s office and sprayed “cunt” and “fuck off” on the bonnet. He was a really witty chap and always had us in stitches with the stuff he used to come out with. When Ian St Ian came out and saw what they had done, he just smiled and laughed. They were real characters, you don’t get people like that in the game anymore.



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