Outlandish Scenes From An Imaginary Bestseller

I want you to close your eyes and expand your imagination. Thank you, and if you’re not getting sleepy, let’s get started. So, with your eyes closed, please, picture this: You’ve written a book that’s sold millions of copies, been translated into dozens of languages, and even become popular on television. Your pretend-book has done so well that it’s an international bestseller, and a force in several off-planet venues.  

Allow me to offer my congratulations. It’s not difficult to be sincere, as I’m not jealous of your success—at least, I don’t think that I am—pretended success, or otherwise.  I am jealous of your groupies, however. Groupies, and grope-ies—they say the insatiable sexpots are somewhat depraved. But don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not a card-carrying dirty old man. (I lost my card awhile ago.)  

By the way, I imagine female groupies. You may prefer the male variety. You may prefer to get married and live happily ever after. Your fantasies are none of my business. And, of course, it occurs to me that closing your eyes makes reading a challenge, but your pretending will improve exponentially. (If you don’t believe me, please pretend that you do.)

Anyway, as I was saying, this non-existent book of yours is a certified humdinger, and being as it’s a bestseller, money is no longer a concern. Nowadays, you go where you want, and buy what you want when you get there. Ain’t it a gas to be rich?  At least, for the first few months—I bet. Oh, and just imagine how friendly people will be now! (Draws a stagey breath.)

Speaking of friendly, you deserve the affection. It must get lonesome—God knows—grinding out all that whoop-tee-do on the blank page. But to judge from your prolific output, you’ve taken the big secret to heart. You’ve learned that the best way to wrap yarn into a ball is to not sweat the knotty stuff. In other words, issues of plausibility, coincidence, and originality are of no import. I mean, just ask any literary agent worth their 15%. What? You can’t find a literary agent worth 15%. (They’ll tell you they feel underpaid at 15 %, but if you have a literary agent on the line—--congratulations—-ask him or her if realism is a necessary component of bestselling drama. Especially if that drama happens to be a fantasy. While you’re at it, ask said agent if a story requires logic and verve, with characters that establish and maintain fictional integrity. Said agent, between tequila shots, is liable to grin like you’ve lost your mind, and then Mr. or Ms. agent will swear that none of the above is needed for success.

This assertion introduces Bestseller Rule #5: Namely that, it’s permissible to sell out a story. Just make sure that your story is sold out dramatically. Unintentional farce may result, but many readers make fiascos okay. In other words, dear wannabe,best-selling writer, don’t leave your cheap shots at home. Because once you understand that realism is not a story requirement, and that a plausible plot need not be a concern, the bad guy is free to tie the sexy young thing and her heaving bosom to the nearest railroad tracks, so to speak. As long as, the heroine is sexy (and heaves away) when that hypothetical train chugs around the bend II’’s optional, of course, whether or not the villain twirls his moustache in a snidely fashion.

Anyway, I hope that your eyes are still closed, because your belief system is about to be severely challenged. For openers, I want you to visualize a gaggle of good guys galloping their horses—ka-lump, ka-lump. We’re talking miles of bone-shaking, moonless, country roads, void of lights and cars, for this is a time-traveling tale, occurring some three centuries ago. Eventually, your intrepid imagination delivers the good guys—ka-lump, ka-lump—to a dark and foreboding castle without the slightest hitch. (Although, the odd buttock may be a tad tenderized.)  

Anyway, the good guys, ignoring their sore posteriors, are light and manly on their feet. They overpower the only guard they encounter to breach the so-called security of the dark castle. And the intimidated guard immediately and conveniently gives up the villain’s whereabouts. (There was a memo to all personnel as to where exactly in the dark and foreboding castle plucky heroines are being abused this evening.) Oh, by the way, I should mention that the plucky heroine doubles as the fetching wife of the hero. For it is he, who dashes his profile up the winding stairway to the top of the castle, where he discovers a handy rope coiled on an industrial-size wench. This rope is akin to what is found on a tow truck, and resembles a huge fishing reel, the wench is suitable for capturing the Loch Ness Monster in season. The wench also provides unorthodox room service, and the occasional rescue work.

Regardless, it’s a lot of rope, but the hero is soon at the end of it, dangling alongside a huge, open window. (Just the window the hero was seeking, Somebody must have wanted some fresh air.) Anyway, peering inside the oversize window, the hero notices that his wife, the plucky and fetching heroine, is being manhandled by a bad guy, whose dastardly features are tantalizingly familiar.

The villain has ripped open the blouse of the fetching heroine, and we observe that the brassiere has yet to be invented, but the bad guy keeps his sweaty mitts off the heroine’s lucky charms. A forbearance that is out of character for a rapist, but complies with Bestseller Rule #17, that stipulates that: A fetching and plucky heroine, though in impending danger of being violated, shall remain pure as the driven immaculate—a strict, look-but-don’t-touch policy. (Although, mustaches may be waxed and twirled. No doubt, said twirling occurs in anticipation of a policy breach.)

At any rate, the villain is literally caught with his pants down, as the hero swings through the oversize window, and into the room on his rescue-rope—think Tarzan on a vine. The hero points his resolute jaw, and an old fashion, state-of-the-art flintlock pistol at the villain, as he unleashes his baritone to state passively-aggressively: “I’ll thank you to unhand my wife, thou most foul scoundrel.” The villain ignores the hero’s unbelievable timing and baroque vocabulary, as he sneers down the barrel of the hero’s flintlock.

Meanwhile, the plucky heroine squirms in the bad guy’’s grasp. Clearly, she is irritable and out of sorts. Evidently, being raped has rubbed her the wrong way. Does she desire a pragmatic hero? A pissed-off husband, for example, eager to thwart rapists? Taking full advantage of not being thwarted, the villain presses a gleaming knife to the heroine’s pale throat, and he tells the hero to put down his pistol. The hero complies. Now bear in  mind that this is the hero’s first rescue mission. He’s just learning the ropes—see above. Still, special considerations matter not when the villain aims the flintlock at the hero and—gasp—pulls the trigger. What a twist—the hero dies!

But, no, the pistol clicks on empty, because—believe it or not—the gun ain’t loaded! It seems that the hero has gone a-rescuing with a dud-ly weapon. Was he worried that someone might get hurt? Speaking of which, the villain fails to raise a hand in his own defense, as the hero advances to grab the evil doer by the scruff, and punish his dastardliness and slow reaction time by bashing his head on a table. (A lethal bashing would seem to be in order—-can you say rapist—-but the hero merely renders the villain comatose. As if the villain is a mainstay of the plot.)

Then, just before the hero and heroine make their exit—sorry, gotta run—the hero muses (to himself) that it never occurred to him to injure an unconscious man. A saintly attitude, considering that this particular “unconscious man” (aka, the familiar-looking villain) recently bull-whipped the skin off the hero’s back (ow-eee), and raped the hero’s sister (hiss). And, lest we forget, a moment ago, this “unconscious man” was intent on raping the hero’s very own sexy wife (bad host). As well as firing a pistol point-blank at our unarmed hero (unsporting). At the very least, the hero could wake the bad guy up for a proper bitch-slapping.

Also, it should be noted that the villain is an officer of the invading army. Whereas the hero is a foot soldier for the home team. As such, it’s the hero’s sworn duty to harm the enemy. I mean, this is wartime, yo. But never mind pesky details, because according to Bestseller Rule #11: The nobility of the hero shall be upheld at all costs—including, evidently a nobility that transcends human nature, military duty, and common sense.

 So, okay, what next? Well, just now, nothing quite furthers the story along like the thrilling vision of the chivalrous hero and his saucy wife leaping to their freedom. Hand-in-romantic-hand, out of the extra-large window, high up the towering walls of the dark and foreboding castle, they plummet. But fear not—the winsome pair do not go splat in the night. This is a seaside castle and natural likelihoods are suspended, as the ocean is un-fathomly deep all along the shoreline of the dark castle. Deep enough to break a dramatic leap from way the hell up the walls.

You may open your eyes now. Welcome to the hokey world of best-selling novels, and thanks for playing.