*CONTEST!!!* The .4K Romance novelette!

Poststructural Pub
1

Inspired by
1)This dreary rainy day
2)Lampchop’s comments in flanum’s “laydeez” thread, and
3)my penchant for procrastination,

I’ve decided to launch the following Bloomfield-esqe contest, with a twist.
(if Bloo decides to initiate legal action for my co-opting of the .4K concept, I will need good representation. Please volunteer.)

This is your opportunity to fulfill your lifetime conviction that you too could write like Barbara Cartland if only they’d pay you. I can assure you however that I won’t pay you. In fact, I don’t even have a prize in mind apart from the admiration and snickers of your fellow chiffers.

Rules:

  1. Maximum length: 400 words.
  2. There will be a vote (provided more than 2 entries are submitted.) I will not be personally responsible for your dreams of Harlequin Romance success being quashed.
  3. For the reason stated in item #2, noms de plume are welcome and indeed encouraged. In fact, the plumier the better. Please pm me with your submission if you’d like your true Chiff persona to hide cunningly in the shadows until the voting has been finalized.

For clarification, I’m submitting the following example of a piece written in the Romance genre:

“Suzette…I didn’t mean…”
He choked on the last word, his steely jaw trembling slightly, and he turned away, but in that moment she saw, nay felt, the burden of guilt he must be bearing since the highway death of his beloved wife Adelaide ten years earlier.
“Gervais,” she said. “I didn’t know…”
“Yes you did!” he snapped, spinning so ferociously that his every muscle rippled. “Even you, as a girl of ten, could have warned your inventor-father that his 2-way brake-accelerator concept was foredoomed to failure!”
“I was ten!” she cried, her lithe frame shaking with the cumulative outrage of every spitfire in her maternal lineage. Then her posture softened, as she whispered, knowing she’d never break through Gervais’ tormented shell. “It wasn’t my father. It was his evil assistant Snookly.”


Here are some examples of the wrong genres, just to set you on the right path:

There it was. 3rd and Vine. Smelled as dank as any other dingy corner of the city releasing last night’s rain from its concrete pores. She was there–Suzette–her painted-on dress now peeling at the edges.
“Hello Gervais,” she said, as she pumped two Derringer slugs into his gut.
“Crooked dame,” he thought, slumping to the pavement. “Lucky for me, I’m the protagonist in this example.”

This is wrong too:

“Suzette!” cried Gervais as he parried Dr. Tarantula’s multi-tentacled blows with his special optical x-ray darts. “The minions! They’re chewing through my cape!”
Suzette wasted no time. In one dizzying spin she transformed into She-Tap, and began sqashing six minions with each click of her steel-soled wonder tap shoes.

And so is this:

“Suzette!” screamed Gervais. “Suzette, come quick! I fell through old Farmer Pete’s cellar door and I can’t get out!”
Suzette barked once and yipped twice as if to say “I heard every word! I’ll go get Dad right away! Hang in there buddy!”
And off she ran, her silky fur buffetted by the prairie breeze.

Oh, you get the idea. This will either be highly entertaining or a shameful flop–but I dare you–Break our hearts, you know you can.

2

And what sort of a name is “Snookly”?

Nice to see you do a contest. No objection from me, nor legal action. I’ll just take 15% of all bribes you receive. :slight_smile:

3

So, um, why Barbara](http://www.barbaracartland.com/static/newsflash.aspx%22%3EBarbara) Cartland? Why not Amy Tan or Anne McCafffrey or Rebecca McAvoy (my favourite lady authors)?

djm

4

Anne McCaffrey writes Romance novels, too?

Fllorrd leapt from his massive Brown dragon into the waiting arms of
Suzarn, who had already finished her run. She ran her fingers over his
new Thread scars, and wished for the hundredth time that they this
Pass would finally be done, so she could rest in Fllorrd’s arms for the
rest of their days. Her Green bellowed as she drew Fllorrd into a
passionate embrace.

5

Those would fall under the immigrant tale or dragons genre. (Guess I didn’t include enough examples of what not to write!) This is Romance novelettes in the great Harlequin or similar tradition. If you did not read one or two when you were an impressionable young girl*, then maybe you won’t know what I’m talking about.

*I’m guessing that some folks who were never impressionable young girls can fake it.

6

I read Lady Chatterly’s Lover when I was 12, does that count?

7

Heh heh heh.

This is going to be fun. Great idea Em.

8

Anne Tyler doesn’t write romance. She’s litfic.

9

Will something like this work?

10

Does The Librarian Conspiracy count?

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She’s one of my favorites.

I’m still working on my idea.

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Entry # 1
By: Anonymous #1


Destiny, who leads the lives of Kings and Princesses, also watches over the fish-monger and the plumber.

He knew she was trouble when he saw her toilet: there are places lipstick stains just don’t belong.

“It bubbles!” she cooed. “It sounds so…wet!”

“Great, I always get the crazy dames,” he thought, as he bent over to his work, giving her a choice view of his ample rump.

Remember folks–you have up to 400 words to work with here!
(and surprisingly, one can squeeze most major storyline elements into that space.)

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For your perusal, I submit the following key points from the Harlequin Presents submission guidelines:(emphases mine)

Here are a few of the highlights from eHarlequin’s guidelines:
“Although grounded in reality and reflective of contemporary, relevant trends, these fast-paced stories are essentially escapist romantic fantasies that take the reader on an emotional roller-coaster ride.”

Each book should contain a > “strong, wealthy, breathtakingly charismatic” alpha-hero > who is tamed by a > “spirited, independent” heroine.

The focus of the story should be on a “provocatively passionate, highly charged affair, driven by > conflict, emotional intensity and overwhelming physical attraction> , which may include explicit lovemaking.”

But remember Chiffers–we’re a family channel!

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You are such a tease, em.

15

No, she just means the stories should be about incest.

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A Man of Quiet Conviction

She could not help but admire a man in uniform. There was something so controlled about the uniform, and yet the promise of so much more from the man, no – the animal within.
She looked down demurely, then peeped up carefully through her thick, dark eyelashes. He was looking back. An irresistible blush rose to her cheeks. Would he see? His eyes seemed to search for hers. The haircuts are so severe, she thought absently. His shoulders moved with a strong and careless grace. He was coming this way. Would he ask her to dance? Suddenly her throat was dry.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, may I have the pleasure…?”
“Why, of course,” she murmured, and he swept her into his arms as the music of the waltz swelled and swirled around her head. Her hand trembled as it lay on his shoulder, and she could feel the warm strength of his hand at her back. He was so close to her. Her heart beat with the music, and she ignored the sensation, making sure she placed her feet correctly, making sure that the dance was the thing, turning in time, guiding and guided; two individuals who moved as one. She glanced at his face. He was gazing at her with a quiet intensity that made her pulse race. His eyes flickered to the other couples and back to her as they stepped and turned like automata, like the perfect figurines on a music box. She could sense a purpose there, a hidden desperation which called to her as a woman. At last the music swelled to a close, and they parted, reluctantly, smiling with delight and nervousness both, applauding the music, and applauding each other.
“Such a warm night,” she ventured.
“It is indeed, Ma’am,” he replied, but sank into silence.
“Perhaps you would care for a turn around the gardens,” she asked, but sadly he shook his head.
“I had best be getting back,” he answered. “Warden likes to have us all back in our cells by ten o’clock.”

17

I think the contest is well and truly won. Well played, sir.

18

It is NOT won! I haven’t had my chance yet!!! :imp:

What’s the submission deadline? I have a thing to write for class is why I’m asking.

Hmmm, maybe I can combine the two . . .

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There was this ol’ gal from up Vinita, and she was going with an old boy from Gravette, and they was all in love.

They did everything together. Went to the show… attended the rodeo… went to the Calf Fry Festival… they even went to Country Fever. If it was an event, they went.

This old boy’s name was Carl, and he had graduated high school in '78. He had a gift for poetry and he was always writing poems. These were good modern poems. Not that stuff that has meter.

Well, the girl, she hated poetry, and so she just had other people read them, and give her the gist of what it said.

One day, she thought, “y’know, Valentine’s Day is coming up. I orta write him a poem, but I hate poems, so what I’ll do is look something up in the Oxford Book of English Verse.”

So that’s what she done. She went down to the public library and she copied out the first poem in that book. It didn’t make a lick of sense. Something about a lewdly singing cuckoo.

Well, Carl was astute. He had seen most of the movies that were in the “5 for 5 days for 5 dollars” section of National Video. He said, “ain’t that the song from Holler Man?”

“No,” she said, “I think there was one similar in Wicker Man… but not in Hollah Man. It ain’t the same, though, I was just making literary reference in it”

This got Carl to thinking, and he remembered seeing Patricia Routledge in that show, and so he decided to buy her a bouquet of hyacinths and roses and violets and daisies.

She really liked the flowers, though they drew sweat bees.

They decided to get hitched, and so they did.

Finis.

20

Walden is my hero.