The Letter Distribution corollary: The frequency of individual letter usage shall be directly proportional to the letter score value from the game of Scrabble™
Nobody will ever say anything. They may rasp things, murmur things, growl things, announce things or shout things, but they will never say things.
Ideally, they’ll use “countersinking” adverbs, too - they’ll rasp hoarsely, murmur softly, shout loudly, and so forth.
If you’ve got some kind of social or political bug in your ear, be sure and lard your story up with it. Especially political stuff, people love having their fiction doused with polemics. And you just can’t be too blunt or obvious about it, people just won’t get it unless you REALLY pour it on.
Yes, I’m looking at YOU Ayn Rand, Robert Heinlein and most galling of all to me personally, John Norman.
By the same token, characters will be rarely referred to as their name, but increasingly by noun phrases. This, coupled with ham-handed avoidance of the word “say,” leads crackling and witty prose:
“What do you think?” whispered the sultry vixen.
“I try not to think,” scowled the jaded gumshoe.
“What don’t you think about?” insinuated the bewitching vamp.
“I don’t think about that, either,” jousted the sardonic P.I.
“Why don’t you not think about me?” suggested the alluring temptress.
“I’ll think about it,” bantered back the ironic sleuth.
The first scene of any novel on Bad Fiction Planet will include a mirror-like object, in which the protaganist will see his or her reflection and narcissistically comment upon same. Often, though not always, the comments will be couched in ridiculously unconvincing self-deprecation.
Dirk Manly stepped into the street, leaving the stuffed shirts of the Corporation behind him. As he turned, his own profile caught his eye, reflected in the smoky glass panels covering the faceless, unobtrusive monolith of the building. Arrested, he stopped to examine himself. The first stop was the face atop his six-foot-two frame. He’d always thought his overly square jaw, stubbled face, and steel-grey eyes would be a turn-off to women, particularly coupled with the faint scar on his cheek he’d received from that Maori assassin in Tokyo, but the string of supermodels he’d dated over the last year had disagreed. He touched his thick, wavy, black hair. Another disappointment. True, Consuelo and Elle and Mageritta had often run their fingers through it, cooing and gurgling as all supermodels do, but he’d always thought it simply too thick, too wavy and too blue-black. His eyes traced his reflection downward. His broad shoulders and thin waist had made him stand out at the Academy, always a loner, unable to fit in with the others. And his clothes! He felt vaguely foppish in his perfectly tailored Armani suit, crisp white shirt, and silk Italian tie held in place with Skull-and-Bones clasp, but that was the uniform these days. He sighed and turned. You couldn’t change what nature and the Corporation gave you. Time to get to work.
::cough::gag::splort::
That’s really, really bad. Good job!
Why thank you! I guess I just write great crap. I must say I’m rather proud of that paragraph; I added what I thought were some particularly bad touches. 
In historical fiction, the lead character will have views on racial, relgious and gender equality pretty much equivalent to those of an ACLU member, circa 1995.
During a fight the here must fight “with the strength of ten men”
Everyone is skinny. Except for the best friend of the hero/heroine, who is fat and funny.
The women’s boobs are perky, their nose pert and a luscious mouth.
The men are all chiselled. Even in historical romances where apparently Bowflex is abound at Wemberly Manor.
And their teeth are all perfect, white and straight.
The man in the story is always The Most Richest Bachelor About Town (clearly in Want of a Wife) . Yet, he is interested in the runaway heiress who has disguised herself as a scullery maid at his palatial manor home for reasons vaguely glossed over.
The men are always 33.
Not 30. Not 34. Not 32. 33. It is the magic number in romance novels for men to get married by or apparently they turn gay or something.
The heroine must always be described as “plucky”.
People never just walk–they glide, shuffle, sneak, sidle, or my personal favorite-sweep into a room (presumably with a broom in hand, which is the mental image the reader will have. A more modern Bad Fiction story may have the character sweeping into a room, causing the reader to envision a Swiffer sweeper instead, meaning the character will actually “Swiffer” into the room instead of merely “sweeping”.)
Every Bad Fiction story must have a "Wise Old Man"™ who knows more than he is saying and parts with bits of wisdom little by little throughout the story. Can be substituted with the slightly less popular "Wise Old Woman"™ who is invariably thought of as a witch.
Bad Fiction sex scenes must appear to have been copied from a different story entirely with lots of heaving bosoms, arching backs and gasps of ecstasy, and with the participants acting completely out of character. The sex scene will in no way add to the plot of the story except to cause awkwardness or tension between the two characters later on (except in the case of unexpected pregnancy).
If a Bad Fiction sex scene leads to a pregnancy, the woman must not find out about the pregnancy until after the hero is either imprisoned, kidnapped, sentenced to death, missing in action or dead.
On Bad Fiction Planet, characters must repeatedly address each other by name, even when they are the only two people present and they’ve known each other for a long time.
They will also have to reminisce about things while passing that would ordinarily only come up during a long night of drinking.
“Dirk,” growled the Major Steve Savagewood at the sight of his old comrade in arms, Dirk Manly.
“How are you, Major Savagewood?” Dirk offered his hand to his old friend as he strode up to the street side coffee vendor in search of a strong cup of joe. Their white-knuckled grip would have broken the bones of most men.
“Well, Dirk, I can’t complain.”
“Come on, Steve, I’ve known you too long. You can complain about anything.”
The Major laughed. “Yeah, Dirk, I guess we’ve been through enough together that you wouldn’t buy that. How about I buy you a cup? This one’s on me. It’s the least I can do for the man who saved my life.”
Dirk whistled and shook his head, sunlight light glinting from his Gargoyle sunglasses. “You’re buying? I tell you, Steve, if I can get a free drink out of you for busting your tail out of some Eastern European work camp, next time I’ll blow your cover myself!”
The Major gazed thoughtfully at his old friend as he paid for two cups of coffee. A gust of wind from a passing bus lightly tousled his immaculately combed graying hair. “How long ago was that, anyway, Dirk?”
Dirk flashed a brilliant smile. “Not long enough for me to forget how you saved my can in the Congo a year later. Well, Steve, I gotta run. The Old Man wants to see me…”
EZ
Admit it EZ… you do this professionally. 
Wow. Who knew Clive Cussler posted here?
Except when she’s “feisty” or “spunky”.