Words, words, words

Please don't misread this and conclude that I'm advocating the repeal of the First Amendment. Quite the contrary. I'm a firm and vocal believer in free speech. And, more important, if the aforementioned Amendment were removed from the U.S. Constitution, my column, I fear, would soon be struck from these cheap pages of newsprint.

But I do believe - and this may surprise those of you who generally spend time in classes contemplating your next beer - that people should consider what they're going to say before they say it. I've frequently thought of campaigning for linguistic citations, which would be handed out when certain standards of language were ignored. (Who, you ask, would determine these standards? What a silly question. I would.) To draw an example from thin air, a citation would be given to anyone who feels th

Andrew Mortensen

e need to describe publicly, in detail, what certain people were wearing at what time, how frequently, and "God I can't believe she was wearing that outfit again!"

The same goes for people discussing the merits of Magic: The Gathering within a hundred yards of any person not involved in said discussion. (I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that "The Gathering" is an ironic title. If you don't understand what I mean, I must point out, sadly, that there's little hope for you.)

But what really inspired this column, beside the deadline, are the multitudinous linguistic transgressions I find in published novels. Instead of beating around the bush, let me come straight to the point: How the hell do these so-called authors get away with it? I cannot help but suspect that some of them have random word generators on their computers, and, when they want to write another novel, they simply type in the desired word count, run the program, and send the resulting "manuscript" to their comatose publishers.

The worst of it, as it seems to me, is that these abominations frequently turn out to be best-sellers. I have in mind the books of one particular author, whose name, in an effort to keep her identity secret, I will not reveal except in parentheses (Danielle Steel). (Danielle Steel's) novels sell at an astounding rate, and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why. All of her novels, as far as I can tell, are constructed of the same story, but with the names of the characters changed - and possibly the setting has been moved from a large, East Coast metropolis, to a large, West Coast metropolis. (Danielle Steel) churns out book after book, sometimes releasing upwards of 10 new banal and formulaic tomes a week. One of her recent efforts (I use this term loosely), which she must have spent at least ten hours working on, is entitled "The Klone and I: A High-Tech Love Story." Really. And yet she's made millions of dollars.

Millions of dollars. I spent some time over Thanksgiving considering this, and I'm pleased to announce that I've decided to get in on the action. If the American people are dense enough to pay millions for dollars for (Danielle Steel's) writing, I see no reason why they shouldn't pay me similar amounts. I can write just as poorly as she can.

And, in fact, I did, after having relinquished all my linguistic values. During Thanksgiving break, I began a new novel, in a style I imagine to be that of (Danielle Steel), including in it all the elements I've determined make a best-seller. These elements are 1) sex, and 2) sex, not to mention 3) sex. The following is an excerpt from my book:

Chapter One: The Characters Meet and Have Sex. Frequently.

". . . 'Oh, Buck,' said Trixie, surprised and pleased that Buck was willing to show his love for her publicly; and to show it here, in public, no less! Never in all her life had she had such an experience as she was having now. She would later, much later, look back on this time as the happiest of her life. She ran her hands over Buck's chiseled yet strangely compassionate facial features, lingering by his flaring nostrils, which, she would later, much later, call the most attractive nostrils she'd ever had the pleasure of encountering.

"'Urp,' Buck said, belching into her loving, caressing hands, thrilling her in ways she'd never even imagined."

Chapter Two: More of the Same.

". . . 'Oh, Buck,' Trixie said.

"'Urp,' said Buck."

Chapter Three: Things Heat Up!

"'Here?' Trixie asked in a hushed voice. 'Now?' Buck nodded his princely, sculpted head, vapid, dreamy eyes holding her captive. The vast emptiness evident in those eyes shone on her like a light from heaven, warming her, quickening her pulse. She clung to his arm, feeling the curious softness of his rock-hard muscles through the silky fabric of his finely crafted shirtsleeve. Trixie looked at him and, confident that he knew what was best, relented and allowed him to visit the bathroom. His princely bladder was filled to bursting, so he said, and she had no reason to disbelieve him.

"Later, much later, she would look back and realize this was her first mistake."

I can already fairly hear the cash registers ringing up sales of my novel even now. No doubt I'll be asked to go on a promotional tour in support of my record-breaking sales. Movie deals are in the works even as we speak.

What's that? The title? I dunno. I was thinking of maybe something along the lines of "Sex," or "Sex: The Novel." At any rate, you may rest assured that it will appeal to the intellect.

Big Ideas (Don't Get Any)

12-03-98