Ouch.

I mentioned the other day that my next door neighbor brings to me offerings of romance novels, and some of the authors I've read before and like and some I've tried to read and can't, and today at lunch I picked up a copy of a Virginia Henley novel and I'm afraid that while I've never read Virginia Henley before I won't be reading much of her in the future, because the first paragraph nearly made me want to claw my eyes out:

Submerged up to her breasts in the forest pool, the flame-haired girl shivered deliciously at the feel of icy water on her skin. She had waited all winter for this first spring dip. Jane Leslie had a wild, untamed streak like the forest creatures with whom she was able to communicate. Because she had this special gift, animals trusted her and came to her hand without fear.

I mean, if it were a single sentence, don't you think it'd merit inclusion in the Bulwer Lytton contest?

It didn't really get any better, either. I read a few pages further in, and not even the bestiality on pages 3-4, wherein she's, ahem, sensually assaulted by a lynx (foreshadowing! The hero's name is Lynx, which is of course a fine old Norman name! Such subtlety!), was enough to revive my interest.

So I quit. But I've been thinking this all day: why aren't we all published novelists? Because whether we plan to be published or not, we're all exponentially better writers than this.