That Book

I'm reading That Book Which Must Not Be Named.  You know, the one by She Who Must Be Obeyed Worshiped.   (And if you don't know which book I'm talking about, consider that your absolute defense against reprisals: "Hey, it wasn't me, I didn't even know what Magdalen was talking about.  Honest, guv.")

I was actually excited to start reading That Book.  She Who Must Be Worshiped (hereafter, "Shehoo") ramps up the yummy factor from page 1.  Pick your favorite edible indulgence: dessert, high-fat snacks, whatever; it's a good proxy for the num-nums Shehoo provides.  You know it's bad for you, but you can't resist.

Then the regret sets in.  You start to notice the little things: infelicitous word choices, implausible characterization, improbable plot devices, etc.  But it's still yummy, right?  You eat some more.  Eventually you get a tummy-ache, and you start to curse the soulless businessmen who published That Book solely because it will make them a lot of money.  How dare they!  Why didn't anyone hold Shehoo's feet to the fire and force her to clean up some of her trans fat-laden prose?

Oh, we've all been there.  Even if you're maintaining your plausible deniability by insisting you don't know which book I'm writing about, there's a book in your head that fits this description.

Well, here's a fun trick to try next time you're fighting indigestion reading That Book or one of its ilk.  Imagine the protagonists as teenagers.

I did this with That Book, and it instantly made a lot more sense.  Our heroine isn't really a mature woman with actual issues to worry about -- she's 16.  Her attitudes toward the hero aren't grown up in any way, they're roughly on the level of "Ooh, do you think he likes me?  Wait -- he just smiled at you!  I'm jealous!!"  And our hero isn't a jaded sophisticate with Secrets of His Own.  No, he's 19 -- old enough to be sulky or curt with his well-meaning friends, and brimming over with unregulated desire while lacking any real direction in his life.  He admires her youthful curves, but knows he shouldn't go there (so to speak); she thinks he's sex-on-a-stick, but knows she shouldn't go there.  They sigh a lot.  They "go there," but then feel real bad about it.  They sigh some more.  They exchange longing glances.  There's something approximating a conflict, although neither one of them drinks poison or gets stabbed (more's the pity), and then there's something resembling an HEA.

I can't tell you how much happier I've been since I saw this about That Book's characters.  It makes me despise Shehoo even more -- why couldn't she have written Twi-Even-Lighter (i.e., a book whose characters are supposed to be acting like teenage twits) and spared us this drivel masquerading as a romance novel? -- but at least it provides a context for her writing.  It's Grease without the singing or talent.  It's the new version of Beverly Hills 90210.  It's adolescence.

It explains so much. 

But I'm still feeling queasy.
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