This was supposed to be a book review, not an existential crisis. But about halfway in, I found myself asking probing questions like:

“When will I stop choosing books just because their titles are funny?”
“Why do I review books anyway?”
“Why was this written in the first place?”
“Why did someone publish this…in 2007?”

When I fist saw The Untamed Earl, I was with my daughter Scarlett, and both of us thought it was hilarious. Over the next few days, she kept shouting unexpectedly, “Look out, mom! It’s an untamed earl!” The back blurb sounded equally promising, with some plot about a girl unexpectedly married to an uber-alpha male, who attempts to manipulate him with advice taken from a dog-training manual. (Yes, really). The dog training manual is actually a thinly-veiled guidebook to controlling your unruly husband, but it takes the heroine awhile to figure this out. Though the advice-book plot is more a modern invention of the last ten years, everything else about this book practically screams 1984.

I don’t know where you were in 1984, but I was a young teenager who could frequently be found skulking around the racks of romance novels at Food Town, guiltily reading the backs of them and wondering if any of them could be good. They sounded both seductive and outlandish, and I’m sure most of them were terrible. The plots were larger than life, with feuding families, kidnapped brides, and half-naked half-breed guides all vying for their market share. Historical accuracy was iffy at best. This book would have fit right in.

The outlandishness starts with the hero’s name, which I’m pretty sure is the worst one I’ve ever seen in a romance. It’s (brace yourself) Godolphin. I’m not sure how it’s supposed to be pronounced. GOdolphin? GODolphin? I finally settled on something like G’dolphin. Frankly, what amazed me most was that this book is co-authored by two people – surely the only two people in America who thought naming a hero Godolphin was a good idea. Now granted, it’s his surname (though everyone calls him that). And, I was surprised to discover that there actually was an earl with that name. But let’s face it, it sounds dorky.

We are scarcely introduced to the unfortunately-named earl when the heroine, Estella, plans a “prank” to get him to ravish her. The tables are turned when her parents come upon them in a passionate embrace and more or less force them to marry. Estella uses this as an excuse to be irrationally mad at Godolphin, and she refuses to trust him throughout the book. Since Godolphin began the “ravishing” at her invitation, I never really understood where she got her indignation.

Estella refuses to share her bed with Godolphin, which initiates the string of romance clichés that make up this book. Godolphin hides his secrets from Estella. He gives her the job of redecorating the castle. She wonders about sex, though she’s learned some of the basics from her visit to a farm (is it just me, or would everyone else like to kiss this hackneyed plot point goodbye?). She and Godolphin fight, refuse to trust each other, and eventually have sex.

The bulk of the book is actually taken up by a plot involving Estella’s father’s business ledgers. Godolphin wants to see them because he thinks her father is dishonest. Estella wants to protect her father. Improbably, both of them have keys that they keep with them at all times. Estella’s is to her father’s warehouse (because, you know, teenagers are always caring around keys to their father’s warehouses). Godolphin’s is to his study. They jockey around, trying to get each other’s keys. Meanwhile, the evil villain is out to get them both. It takes them forever to figure this out, even though he does everything possible to tip them off (short of wearing a sign that says, “I hate you, Godolphin, but I really want to nail your wife.”) When they eventually catch on – which happens to be when he is actually trying to slice Godolphin’s arm off – they are still incredibly slow to act. Godolphin wanders off from the scary encounter with vague plans to do something about it. How about killing the guy who tried to kill you? How about throwing him in jail, since you’re the magistrate? Neither of these options occurs to Godolphin, who prefers to go on his merry way so he can fight with his wife a few more times.

If the review sounds convoluted, it’s more or less a reflection of the plot, none of which makes any sort of logical sense. Capping it all off, each chapter is titled. I’m all for chapter titles, when they’re done well. J.K. Rowling and Diana Gabaldon have some excellent ones. But the titles in The Untamed Earl are almost amazing in their inanity. It’s stuff like “In the Caves” and “The Prankster Unmasked.” Perhaps the authors think their readers are so thick that they will need everything succinctly described ahead of time. In any case, I came away with the firm conviction that writing chapter titles should be reserved for the clever.

Just when I was finishing up this book and doubting my purpose in life, I found it. Scarlett (the same daughter who warned me about the untamed earls) has discovered romance novels. No need for her to skulk about Food Town; she has a vast library of romances and a mom who can hand her the best of Putney, Quinn, or McNaught. A few days ago, my other daughter remarked idly that it would be fun to be the child of a celebrity. Scarlett replied loyally, “But our mom’s a book reviewer. That’s better.” That was worth a thousand wallbangers to me.