Years ago I produced a file of Bad Science Fiction, with special emphasis on Fanthorpe. For those of you too lazy to click on my links above, I offer the following example of Really Bad Writing from Fanthorpe, under his many pseudonyms. I threw myself on this particular grenade, reading through as many of his works as I could get my hands on:
I had never heard of Fanthorpe. Yet, after reading those samples, I still think I’d rather read his “work” instead of Terry Goodkind.
Have you read the MST3K version?
That book being required reading anywhere surprises me.
First, it’s outright terrible. Not that readability is the prime determinant of what gets read in schools, but there’s a Mendoza Line in effect where, if it’s too hard to slog through, it’s no longer adequate to the task of teaching whatever they want to use a book to teach.
Second, the people responsible for instilling some form of philosophy in the students (who are often English teachers, in fact) would have two kinds of shit fit at assigning Rand: First, she isn’t a philosopher, according to many philosophers. They would literally rather go in-depth on the works of an enthusiastic Nazi than admit Rand had anything to add to the field. Second, even if you admit that her philosophies are philosophy, they’re simplistic philosophies which aren’t worth the trouble.
So you have a book which is difficult to read, but at least it imparts a philosophy which manages to be both morally repugnant and rather idiotic. As an added bonus, if the students mention it at the college level, their professors will have to fight down the urge to shout them out of the room and warmly invite them to never return. It is truly a formidable triple (quadruple?) threat.
Didn’t Paul Ryan assign it as required reading to his staff when he got the Speaker’s gavel, or something?
That said, ETA:
And she isn’t a writer, according to many writers…
Grey or blue, I know not which. Her eyes were there. Like a shaved seal. On a beach.
**I. **She had the eyes, he momentarily thought, of a goddess. Which goddess had grey eyes? Athena? His mother would have called them “blue,” but they were that dull blue that some people call “grey” in eyes. She’d plucked her brows to surprisingly elegant effect, quite a work of artistry for something so prosaic as eyebrows. Her lashes were surprisingly long, and–not black, what would you call that? Brown? Grey? Seal, he decided. That’s a color, right? Or is that only on Siamese cats? Well, and seals, probably.
Wait, what was she saying? Crap, I was distracted by her eyes. “I’m sorry?” he mumbled.
**II. **Her eyes seemed like those of a goddess: grey-blue irises, behind long seal-brown lashes, under ever-so-subtly arched brows.
In Theis’ defense, he was sixteen when he wrote it but he did not take being mocked about it well. It was read at cons before the 90s but in the “party game” mode mentioned in the link, not as a charity event; that would seem to be a later development. It would generally be after midnight well into the con so everyone would be a bit rocky. A circle, rather like a filk circle would be formed and readers would go until they broke up or at most, a page or so. As the link says, getting through 3/4 of a page was considered an accomplishment; I have seen people fail to get even one word out. Several volunteers of the Not Even Close to Ready for Primetime Players would act out the scene being described. This would reveal such high points as when he clasps the Plucky Gal Sidekick to his left side, she gets burned by the apparently forgotten torch he was holding, his right hand being occupied with a sword. I try to jocky my position in the circle so I can read the opening paragraph for chapter 4.All knowledge of measuring time had escaped Grignr. When a person is deprived of the sun, moon, and stars, he looses all conception of time as he had previously understood it. It seemed as if years had passed if time were being measured by terms of misery and mental anguish, yet he estimated that his stay had only been a few days in length. He has slept three times and had been fed five times since his awakening in the crypt. However, when the actions of the body are restricted its needs are also affected. The need for nourishmnet and slumber are directly proportional to the functions the body has performed, meaning that when free and active Grignr may become hungry every six hours and witness the desire for sleep every fifteen hours, whereas in his present condition he may encounter the need for food every ten hours, and the want for rest every twenty hours. All methods he had before depended upon were extinct in the dismal pit. Hence, he may have been imprisoned for ten minutes or ten years, he did not know, resulting in a disheartened emotion deep within his being.
Pfffft. 
These are merely the worst published novelists. This is only the tip of the… seal’s eyelashes.
I thankfully have not read, or even heard of, most of the writers mentioned here. But I started to read very young, and I picked up and read anything that seemed interesting. Then in my mid 20’s I went back and dug up some of my old books and was appalled at how bad they were. Here’s my canidates:
Dean Koontz - when Intensity came out I had most of his books (around 40-50). Then I realized they were all formulatic drivel. Sure the bad guy(s) all had unique abilities and problems, which made them kill people in creative ways, but the protangonist was always some ex-special forces guy who fell in love with a shy wallflower girl, and reluctantly battled the supervillain. And got the shit beat out of him, only to be saved by his wallflower girl, who’d burst out of her shell. He then took out the supervillain. Sure, there was the occasional exception, like the supergirl in Intensity, but this was 95% of his stories.
Forgotten Realms - These started coming out mid 80’s, I think. Different authors writing about the same fantasy realm. Each author took a different area and made their own characters, with a few common chars, like a “Gandalf” (I forget the chars name), who was created by the person that started the Forgotten Realms - Ed Greenwood. I remember quite liking some of the authors in my teens, but when I went back a little older, it was mostly garbage. If I could pick one author who was particularily bad, I’d go with Greenwood. R.A. Salvatore was pretty shitty too, his motley gang included a dwarf that adopted a human barbarian, a Dark Elf who abandoned his evil race, the equivalent of a hobbit, etc. Guilty of constantly of putting all the main characters through the “I’m back, I didn’t really die!” formula. “Yes, it seemed like I got killed by the dragon, but I fell off the cliff and didn’t really die!”. Next book, a different main character: “Yes, I was buried by a landslide, but I found a hole to hide in, and I didn’t really die!”. Rinse and repeat…
And there’s always a dog, usually a golden retriever. I stopped reading him when I realized his titles weren’t sticking with me because the plots were all the same. I don’t have that problem with Stephen King.
The fact that these are all published says something about the readers - especially in the cases where the author has published a lot of books that are mostly of similar quality.
But it also reminds me that having some pointless (but engaging enough at the time) drivel to read is sometimes a good thing.
Morrissey’s debut novel came out a couple of years ago and won the award for Bad Sex in Fiction for this, uh, gem:
I must be weird. I consider Mission Earth to be one of the greatest action/ adventure pulp novels I’ve ever read. Although the last volume was a little strange.
I personally consider Lin Carter to be the worst writer ever. How he ever got any books published is a mystery.
I put Mission Earth in the same category as Fifty Shades of Gray. I picked them up in a bookstore, read a page, began giggling hysterically, and never touched them again.
I just finished reading Lin Garter’s Tower of Medusa, which would seem to justify your assessment. It reads like a contractual obligation book into which he was determined to stuff every space opera cliché he could.
That said, I think that Carter really could write when he wanted to. His Robert E. Howard and Lovecraft pastiches aren’t bad. I do recommend his non-fiction books on Tolkien and Lovecraft. Plus, the guy gets a lot of credit for resurrecting a lot of old and mostly forgotten fantasy when he was Adult Fantasy editor for Ballantine Books.
But, still, some of his stuff is the Pits. But, Og knows, he’s no Fanthorpe. Or Don Pendleton.
I might as well try rewriting it myself.
He noticed she had grey-blue eyes with long brownish lashes and lightly-arched eyebrows.
Jaysus, I needed that laugh. Thank you, YP (don’t suppose I may call you Puddin’, so I won’t ask).
Dear Kuni (taking liberty), how do you know for a fact you’d do worse?
Definitely, Mr. Sullivan. At least during the period Mar 2017 to present. I had come to visit and searched “Beneath A Scarlet Sky” in particular, hoping to find solace in a snarky discussion on the topic of this Amazon algorithm-propelled abomination (possibly promoted by bots to boot) that is so far beyond appalling and dangerous that Mr. Brown’s “The DaVinci Code” may, by comparison, be considered narrative nonfiction.
I can’t seem to justify a refusal to be the face (so to speak) of the resistance or conscientious objectors to Beneath ASS. The undiscerning and vulnerable target audience has a right to be defended from this delusional (I hope!) schmuck. They’re hardly in a position to defend themselves, because Sullivan has assured them that the novel is “85-90 percent true”. (Prior claim in early interview: “Sullivan estimates 90 percent of the story is real.”)
No, it doesn’t matter that it’s published as historical fiction. Trust me on that. Truth needles-nuggets in the Preface are surrounded by falsities, falsehoods and other claims presented as scrupulous disclosures. Sullivan has an preventative answer for just about everything, and he knows damn well most people will skip the Preface (never mind the Front Matter section disclaimer).
Anyone willing to join the resistance should report to the book’s page on GoodReads as soon as time and traffic allow. The infection will grow worse before certain despicable vultures decide it’s time to jump in and capitalize-monetize it by (re)creating the inevitable Frey-like “Million Little Pieces (of Dreck)” moment, presumably sans Oprah public spank-and-scold session.
Before I hit “submit”, it’s worth pointing out that this novel misuses and abuses: the entire Jewish community and the Shoah/Holocaust; a now almost-92 year old protagonist (unless-until I find out he knew exactly what Sullivan intended to do and, if so, he’s awful too); and, among others, a (miscast by author as villain) long-dead German career army general.
Please live up to the motto of this place. I’m not too proud to beg.