For years I have dreamed of becoming a published writer. To write a great novel that will change lives, move people, push the boundaries of conventional story telling and (most importantly) make me staggeringly rich.
On close investigation of what sort of books people read on the train, it seems clear that great epics or family sagas are not “popular” reading. So instead, I have started looking at what today’s discerning masses are buying.
However much as I’d like to write my own War and Peace, it seems there’s rather more money to be made from spewing-out trash. And although I could write a book that is philosophical and intellectual and challenging and will fill me with that sense of perfect creativity … that feeling won’t pay-off the mortgage.
And so I have chosen a new target: one is that is slow-moving, easier to hit, and pays-out good money for any old shit. By taking the key points from the last decade’s best-selling stories, and sticking them together with generous helpings of split-infinitives and bodily secretions, I have created a sure-fire formula FOR SUCCESS. A future of loafing about and lighting cigars from rolled-up twenties is assured! Here’s my summary:
(start of blurb)
Our heroine, Cindy, moves from The Big City to a small, midwestern-USA town and enrolls in the local highschool. Cindy is a shy-but-cute teenage-girl vampire who is also an orphaned fairy princess, secret agent, champion pony rider, zombie-slayer and high-speed texter. Despite all her powers and inner-demons (because having inner-demons is cool) she just wants to be loved and accepted into the school singing club, dance troupe and ninja dojo.
As she starts her new school year she meets an older, hunky, millionaire boy with a Dark Secret, brooding eyes and rippling abs. He pouts a lot, forgets to button-up his shirt when attending class, and farts rainbows during thunderstorms. They embark on a highly-implausible poorly-written sado-masochistic affair, punctuated by complicated dance routines and cover renditions of classic feelgood pop anthems.
With a quirky BFF named Terrence (a sexually-ambiguous teenage werewolf who likes to sing the Olivia Newton-John part of “You’re The One That I Want”) as her shoulder-to-cry-on, and a mix of vampires/werewolves/aliens/lesbians/cyborg gym teachers to battle against, the story promises to be a modern-day fairytale feelgood/tragic/terrifying/nauseating extravaganza of supernatural, super-fun, superlative-laced proportions. Totes Amazeballs!
Will she win the highschool singing contest? What can she do about split-ends? And how will she cope if her Blackberry runs out of charge right before she needs to warn her friends of an impending alien invasion on Prom night?
(end of blurb)
The problem is that each time I type a sentence and then read it back, I want to gouge-out my brain through my eyesockets and stomp on it until it resembles a Saturday-night kebab splattered on Sunday morning’s pavement. But as an amateur writer who just wants to sell-out, write some derivative shite and become a multi-millionaire: I suppose it’s only fair that I should have to suffer for my art.