Slightly Single by Wendy Markham (2002)

Each of the characters in this book is given one defining characteristic.  The heroine of this book, Tracey, is fat. That's it. No physical description other than that, no personality traits whatsoever—she's just fat. The rest of the characters in this book can also be summed up in one word. Unfortunately, for most of the characters, that word is based on their ethnicity or sexual orientation. Her best friend Raphael? Gay. Her coworker Latisha? Black. Her best friend Kate? Rich. Her boyfriend Will? Actor. Her new love interest Buckley? Nice. Her entire family? Upstate New York/Italian-Americans. 

Tracey Spadolini is one of the least likeable characters ever to grace the pages of chick lit. She's fat and unhappy and has a job she hates and has no interests other than brooding about the fact that her boyfriend is leaving her to act in summer stock for the summer. She has nothing good to say about anyone, nor should any of her friends or family expect her to be interested in their lives in any way, except as it pertains to Tracey herself. Not only is she incredibly annoyingly obsessed with her weight (Bridget Jones would tell her to get the hell over it), she's completely clueless about her failing relationship with her attractive actor boyfriend, she's horribly condescending to her entire family, and to top it all off, she's a big old bigot.  

And not only is Tracey a bigot (and not in one of those imperfect anti-heroine kind of ways), but the overall attitude towards gay people in this book is worrying. Tracey has a gay best friend named Raphael (whose defining personality characteristics include wearing tight cutoffs to brunch and having one night stands with sailors) and yet she constantly uses the term "faggy" (and this book was written in 2002!). Every single gay man she comes in contact with is "flamboyant and effeminate" (her words, not mine). Here's Tracey meeting one of Will's housemates at summer stock: "Oh, shut up, Will," says Theodore with such a flouncing flourish that I'm immediately aware that he isn't competing with Will for the fair Esme's attentions . . . as if his name, gold earring and Barbara Streisand concert T-shirt weren't evidence enough." And then he offers her a "limp-wristed handshake." Nice.

Then, when she meets a guy at Raphael's birthday party who seems "low-key and well—normal", she assumes that he's gay, even though he gives her no indication of such, for "would a straight, reasonably adorable guy be at a party like this? In New York? No way." What city, no—what century does this author live in where gay and straight people do not freely commingle? The weird thing is that both Tracey's boyfriend Will and her new love interest Buckley (!) seem way more gay than any of her stereotypical acquaintances. Will is a good-looking actor, who works out constantly, lives platonically with a gorgeous model or something and is dating schlumpy Tracey. Buckley, who uses casually uses words like "minx", "hottie", and "saucy" is prone to the following type of behavior: "He launches into a hilarious description of fellow beach-goers, doing accents and dialogue. He's got me laughing so hard, I'm straining my newly developing abs." When she responds with "I haven't laughed this hard since the first Austin Powers", you know Hepburn and Tracy better watch out.

And just when you think maybe this stereotypical characterization is limited to gay people, along come Tracey's coworkers, including Latisha, who has poor grammar, begins and ends every sentence with "girl" and "wags a finger at [Tracey] in her sassy, don't-give-me-any-crap way." Oh, and five seconds later Tracey remarks that "my troubles pale next to Latisha's. She's a single mother trying to raise an adolescent daughter in a rundown neighborhood where her teenaged sister was shot in a drug-related drive-by shooting a few years ago."   That's quite a lot on anyone's plate.

Long story short, this is a chick lit book with a headache-inducingly dreary (and underwritten) main character.  Not only that, but it shows a worrying tendency towards bigotry. Eek.  Not a fun read at all.

My Life Uncovered by Lynn Isenberg (2003)

Where to start? Whew, this is some bad chick lit. Okay, plot: Chick is a screen writer, well, she wrote one screenplay and no one will produce it, so she starts writing adult films and her career takes off. And some other stuff happens, but not much. I read half and skipped to the end. Trust me, nothing happens. What makes this book so bad? First of all, I've seldom read such clunky dialogue. Filled with clumsy exposition and long speeches, this is so remotely not how people talk. Oh, and in case you were wondering what her original, legit screenplay was about?

"My college summers were spent as a podiatric assistant in my dad's, Walt's, officer where I had come to adore Lily. During her ritual footbaths, I came to understand the sacrifices she made in her life, the dreams lost in self-recrimination and the vast love gained in the sweet solitude of surrender. I was deeply touched by her story, steeped in loss and self-renewal."

And the old chick tells writer chick to tell her story. What story? Plot much?

This book is abysmally written. In addition to the clunky dialogue and awkward exposition, she loves her some adverbs and has a knack for turning such a bewildering phrase that I wondered if perhaps English was not her first, or even second, language. She has literally no character development and after reading half the book, I could barely tell the characters apart. Clearly this is why there's a character list in the front of the book. The author also seems to have an odd sense of how things work in the real world. I don't care how great a writer this chick is, if the adult film producer generally pays $500 for a script and he pays her $3500, there's something really wack there. Especially since she's had nothing produced. Plus, allegedly the character had worked at an agency for three years and she's never heard the term "units" (used in a video context)? Weird.

But what's REALLY weird is the content of this book. Chick lit is about chicks, for chicks, written by chicks, right? After reading (half) this book, I think Lynn Isenberg is a man, baby, and an old one at that, who lacks any insight into the female mind. Example A: She refers to the naked women in the posters lining the adult film producer's office as "stacked." I've never heard a woman use that phrase (nor a man, for that matter, after 1964). Example B: Dressing to go to a party, "I sift through my wardrobe trying to compose a hot outfit I can put together in a hurry—I know, the black Tara Jarmon pantsuit with a sheer top, a charcoal leather duster and black leather calf-high boots that Bennett gave me last year." If that's not convincing enough, a few weeks later she dresses for a party in her go-anywhere black cocktail dress and black loafers. Loafers! And it's not like being fashion-challenged is part of her personality. Everyone thinks she's wonderful and beautiful, so clearly that's just some wrong writing. Example C: She writes a film for the adult film industry that centers on two girls who are dating until one decides she wants to be heterosexual and the other hires a guy to date her and dump her so she'll come back to her. Not only was this already a movie (Three of Hearts, I think, and there might be a Baldwin in it), but the vast majority of the movie centers on girl on girl action. Not only that, but when our heroine goes to Victoria's Secret to watch her sister try on lingerie for her wedding (??), the adult film star (female) and her girlfriend get busy in the next stall, while our heroine listens in. Then, she meets a film producer (female) who invites her to dinner and hits on her in a big way. "And then my mind races with competing thoughts, emotions and questions that go something like this: 'Oh my God, a woman is kissing me.' 'Hmmm, I can't believe how nice it feels.' "What am I doing? I'm not gay!' 'This is wrong for me.' 'God, I miss the arms of a man, a man who loves me.' 'What is the meaning of this?'"

It goes on for quite a while in that fashion and women keep coming on to her. Then she goes on blind dates with men and acts sex-crazed and licentious and actually scares them away. She's on a first date with a guy at Cirque du Soleil and can't understand why he drops her off right after the show. After all, "during the entire performance I whispered to him how I couldn't wait to duplicate all those contortions for him in bed." On a first date! Who behaves like this? (A man's fantasy, that's who.) Her second date is with some guy who she goes to see sculptures with "where I couldn't help but see, and express, something sexual in every object we looked at." He runs away, though clearly, this is another's man's (the author!) fantasy.

But anyway, this is supposed to be chick lit and the guy she ends up with isn't even introduced until more than halfway through the book. The author spends no time on him, seemingly only including him at the end because someone reminded the author that this is supposed to be chick lit. Whew! This book sucked. It's amazing that stuff like this gets published. Red Dress Ink should really stick to importing Brit chick lit.

Once Wicked, Always Dead: A Novel by T. Marie Benchley (2010)

I read a lot of books. I pick up and discard even more, because life is too short to read bad books. But every once in a while, a book comes along that is so awful that it's almost a sport to read it. This is one of those books. From the first incoherent paragraph to the last ridiculous page, this is bewilderingly bad. (I should note that it's published by M.M.W.E. Publishing House in Tampa, FL in case you'd like to check out more of their fine selections. I can't find them online, but maybe you can.)

Quick summary, then we can get to the bad writing. Two storylines: One is about a beautiful woman who is killing pedophiles and other sexually criminal men (her motto is the book's title). The other concerns Molly Madison, socialite who is married to Philip, a lawyer with political aspirations and a secret gay life. When Molly's parents die unexpectedly, she takes over the ranch and fends off potential buyers who will use any means to get to the ranch. She splits up with Philip and takes up with Clayton Leatherbe, head foreman of the ranch. Also, she has a half sister in town who (spoiler alert) is Molly's best friend and responsible for killing or trying to kill most of the people Molly knows.

I give you the first lines of the novel:

"The dimly lit room was specifically designed to create a soothing atmosphere for his patients. An illusion of safety and warmth was his mastermind. He was a Picasso when it came to the details of decorating his office."

Picasso? What? On to Chapter Two, as Philip goes to the gay bar:

"The city lights cast shadows that stretched along the brick walls upon the back of the buildings that lined the dingy alleyway. It reached up like bony fingers providing shade to mask the faces of those who wished to keep their dirty secrets from others."

Just think about it logistically . . . It's at this point that I couldn't help thinking of Inigo Montoya--I just don't think those words mean what she thinks they mean. At least not in the order that she uses them. Let's join Philip at the gay bar!

"The electric voice of Donna Summer swirled in his head. He took great pleasure watching the sweat glisten from the men who simultaneously grinded their bodies together upon the dance floor and felt shivers of excitement run from the back of his neck all the way down to his groin."

Is it just me, or did that shiver of excitement take a u-turn? Even emotions take twisty turns within a single sentence, as when Molly finds out about her parent's accident:

"She expected to hear the comfort of her father's voice calling to inform her that they would be arriving that night, only to be emotionally overthrown by the voice of a compassionate state trooper informing her of her parent's deadly accident."

Molly flies to Montana, "pained with guilt over the fact that she and Philip were being pampered in first class along with her mother and father's charred remains that had been stuffed into body bags and placed in the cargo hold of the large airliner." She drinks Bloody Marys, cries and sleeps on the flight. But "as she stepped off the plane, the mountain air slapped the inebriated woman square in the face and awoke her dulled senses." Just in time for her to meet Clayton Leatherbe:

"Molly noticed the tall, brawny cowboy calling her name. She could not help but admire the thick blond hair that lay beneath his black cowboy hat or the way his tight fitting Wrangler jeans complimented his perfect ass. As Clayton approached them, Molly's swollen eyes spotted the silver rodeo belt buckle that rode just above the large bulge that filled out the front of his pants.

Remember, she just lost her parents. Man, that mountain air really does work wonders. Plus, was he spinning around in circles? At this point, I'm starting to think this is some elaborate publishing joke. On every single page is an example of genuinely weird writing. The descriptions make no sense at all, as in this bit about Molly's father's study:

"As he looked around, his nostrils were filled with the aromatic scent of cherry tobacco that still lingered thick in the air. He spied Gavin's expansive collection of assorted pipes sitting on the large hand carved desk as if anticipating his arrival to be puffed upon once more. A massive fireplace made out of Ancient River rocks, which had once been painstaking hand selected and gathered specifically for their color, emerged from the floor to fill the corner of the room."

I'd love to see an old-school grammarian parse the descriptive sentences in that scene. And what's with the random capitalization? Believe me, I could go on and on. But let's close out with one final scene--a love scene to end all love scenes.

"Clayton gazed down into the depths of Molly's blue eyes with such intensity that he was able to reach in and pluck out her soul. [Literally?] All of her desires were mounting and taking over and she knew that she had lost control of the lust that was building inside her. Neither one of them had any control over the passion they felt for each other. As her body quivered under his touch, Molly reached up for Clayton's lips, parting them ever so gently with her moist tongue. [Just picture that. Try it yourself for fun!] From the first moment that Clayton pressed his lips to her, Molly knew that they were destined for each other and she would never let him go. She loved this man, and for the first time in her life, she felt whole and complete. As Molly inhaled heavily, the aroma of spice and leather swirled off from Clayton's masculine skin and filled her nostrils with delight. [Mmm, swirly AND masculine.] He enthralled her. He had heightened her senses to a level beyond her wildest dreams. Clayton could not contain the burning passion he felt for Molly. He slowly unzipped her coat and reached under her denim shirt, longing to feel her swollen breast. [Just the one?] Even though Molly was in her forties her breasts were firm and ample and seemed to reach out with anticipation for his touch, as if they were aware of the great pleasure that awaited them. [Sentient breasts? Sure, why not?] As he gently caressed her peaks he looked again into her spectacular eyes, blue as the glacier lakes that lay amongst the surrounding mountains. [You'll note the peak theme. Pay attention, it pops up again.] [the watching horses snort with approval, no other love existed before this, blah blah blah and back to the sweet lovemaking] She grabbed hold of her muscular cowboy's tight rear and tugged at his zipper in feverish desperation to free his manhood from its tight confinement. [At the same time? Is he Flat Stanley?] Clayton felt the heat rising from between Molly's legs. He moved forward almost touching the warm, wet invite. [Almost? Hot.] The full moon moved out from behind the clouds where it had been hiding in order to take a peak [SEE??] and shine its bright beam down as a spotlight upon the two lovers."

I tell you what, it's hard to type this. I keep inadvertently fixing the punctuation and correcting the word choice. It would be one thing if it was just the writing--writing like this can be fun to read and critique, but there is a genuinely hateful undertone in this book concerning the gay characters.

Sloan, who is Philip's boyfriend, outs Philip to Molly (or as Benchley refers to it, "ousted") and as a result the mystery vigilante woman pricks him with a syringe filled with HIV and two kinds of hepatitus. He, of course, instantly develops full-blown AIDS. But wait: He goes out to Montana and is killed by two of Molly's enemy's henchmen. They break his neck and set him on fire in his car. And no one, not Philip, not Philip's new more manly lover Jack, even blinks an eye. Remember, all he did was have a consensual relationship with Philip. Just . . . wow.

But wait, there's more! After Molly's friend/half sister/murderer falls off the side of a cliff into the cold, dark water, and Molly and Clayton are joined in holy matrimony, an epilogue informs us that the mystery vigilante is still at her work. After all, they never found Molly's friend's body. BAH BAH BAH! Sigh. Perhaps a sequel in the works? But how could the author top this one?