I Can't Believe It's Not Stephen King!

            Always on the lookout for something that might help me become a respected writer—well no, a writer—I recently stumbled upon some software called, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Stephen King!” It promised to analyze your written words  and adjust them to make your work read more like Stephen King as well as a number of other bestselling authors.

            I pulled out one of my old stories that had failed to sell for years and ran the opening paragraph through the new software. Here’s how it begins, before software enhancements:

            Alan Landry pulled into his driveway and parked. He entered his home by the side entrance, ran some water in the sink and washed his face. The phone rang and he answered, “Hello, this is Alan Landry,”

            I decided to run just this first paragraph through the software and see what came out. I clicked on the “Stephen King” icon and this is what appeared:

            Alan Landry’s head was pounding as he drove the Corvette into the Motel parking lot. He was covered in blood and he needed to clean up and think. He entered Room 9 and limped into the bathroom. He saw himself in the mirror and decided to take a shower—he was a mess. He was just about to step into the shower when the phone rang. Who would be calling him? No one knew he was here. It rang again. He left the bathroom and approached the phone—the pressure inside his head was building. He let it ring one more time and lifted the receiver. “Hello,” he managed to get out but the pressure inside was unbearable.

His head exploded.

I had to admit, it was pretty impressive. I selected the original text again and then clicked on the “Tom Clancy” icon. Here’s what I got:

            Colonel Landry didn’t bother to stop the Humvee at the Langley Security Checkpoint. The alarm horn sounded but Landry knew the guards on duty and had personally coached their sons at Spy Camp—there was no way in hell they would turn on him now. He pulled up next to General Thornton’s Jaguar and parked. He entered the building and pulled out his 45 caliber Glock 37. He ran into the Men’s Room and ran a cool damp cloth over his sweating face. A phone rang—what the hell?

            The phone rang again. It was coming from the second stall. Landry pointed the Glock at the stall door, counted to two and kicked the door in, No one was there—only a cell phone sitting on the lid. He grabbed the phone.

            “Landry,” he answered and waited for a response.

            “Buenas noches mi amigo,” a foreign voice replied and hung up.

            Landry broke into a cold sweat. There was something familiar about the message he had just heard but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He would have the Language Boys compare the strange, foreign words with every known language in the world—if they could break this one, maybe they could get a handle on the rest.

            I found the over-all quality of the writing a bit over-the-top, but I had to admit it was fun to play with. I selected the virgin text once again and then clicked on the “Jackie Collins” icon:

            Alan Landry (think George Clooney) was hung like a horse and he was rich, Rich, RICH! He told his chauffer to pull into the Bellagio and wait. He hadn’t seen Gisele (who now looked like Angelina Jolie) in almost a month, and now she was rich and famous—a lot can happen in a month in a town like Hollywood, especially if you’re a pushover slut like Gisele.

Alan entered the hotel and was immediately surrounded by glamorous and exotic women (they all looked like famous people). Alan smiled that wicked smile of his as slot machines gushed forth jackpot coins as he merely walked by them. The Concierge ran up to him and whispered, “There is a call for you at the desk, Mr. Landry,” and then placed a million dollars worth of casino tokens and a steamed towel into Alan’s hand. “Please accept these as compliments of the Bellagio,”

           

            Alan ran the towel over his face and went to the desk. “You have a call for me?”

            “Yes, we do, Mr. Landry,” said the Scarlett Johansson look-alike with the wild eyes and the untamed golden hair as she placed the phone within his reach. “And I have something for you, too,” she promised.

            “This is Alan Landry,” he said as the gorgeous but ambitious slut behind the desk revealed herself to him.

            Well, it certainly was fun, but utterly pointless. I had to admit that I was anxious to try out I Can’t Believe It’s Not Charles Dickens! as well as the Danielle Steel version. 

©2010 Tom Roy