Sick of the taunts that they write like Mills & Boon authors, Nick Churchouse and Lane Nichols are facing their critics head on and penning a romantic novella over the following fortnight.

The Lost Boys proudly present: Double Entendre.

Chapter 1: French beginnings

The tall gangly youth behind the counter serving Rhiaynne her coffee was the first non-beautiful person she had seen all day. But even he had something of a sexy sway about him, comfortable in his spotty teenage world.

The French were starting to piss her off.

London seemed so far away, so distant, despite the fact she’d only moved out of the flat in Earl’s Court a week ago.

It felt like a whole lifetime had passed since she’d lugged her pack onto the Eurostar. She’d turned her back on that life gladly. But as much as she wouldn’t admit it to herself, she knew there had been no choice.

The hour is almost at hand.

Churchouse and I are preparing to flex our literary muscles as the dwindling, sinewy tendons have never before been flexed.

Goaded by repeated allegations that our (my) posts are full of such love-struck, sentimental tripe that they verge on the offerings of Mills and Boon, we’ve undertaken to do just that.

From Monday we will embark on a course of daring but as-yet-unchartered waters. Our goal is to pen a romantic novella over two weeks, complete with lurching plot, tragedy-ridden characters and passionate scenes of intimacy that will make even the chief censor blush.

Nick and I wish to extend our heartfelt thanks to everyone who offered up imaginative suggestions as to how this great piece of art should proceed.

It seems despite our blogging community’s generally high IQ levels and sage political nous, there’s a decent chunk of pundits out there well versed in the offerings of Mills and Boon who know exactly what they want from a saucy romantic ripper.

Do chicks love assholes?

In pulling together a few grand ideas for our planned Booker-winning romance novella, we have received a few comments on what women really want in a man versus what they say they want.

One comment spelt it out pretty clearly, stating that women say they want some soppy wholesome gentle giant of a man who likes bunnies, has a vege garden and works with handicapped children - but what they really want is a smouldering, swarthy dark horse of a guy who drinks and smokes rollies till 3am on a Tuesday night, gets their number but never calls (to keep them guessing), turns up unannounced to shag them senseless for 24 hours so they have to call in sick to work, borrows $100 for his coke habit, and promises he’ll be back to do it all over once he’s finished helping his rock singer mate tour Australia, then calls collect from Wollongong to say how much he misses her.

I once got so badly sunburned my nipples were erect for a week.

Not a great opening line for a romantic novel, but at least it’s based on real-life events.

Suffice to say it was unpleasant, tender and raw. They (my incinerated nipples that is) rubbed against shirts, starched bath towels and 1000-count Egyptian cotton sheets. The pain was unbearable. It was pure (self-inflicted) hell.

And after the nipples incident, combined with health authorities’ ongoing warnings about the dangers of our ruthless southern hemisphere sun, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson. But no.

Every year it’s the same. After hibernating for six miserable months of icy southerlies and driving rain, out comes the sunshine and I temporarily lose my mind – burning myself up like an overcooked slice of ancient grains Vogel’s or a 14-hour oven-roasted chook.

I’ve had a hard run as a romantic writer.

Given my occupation as a daily scribe of news and events, past girlfriends have accused me of being too practiced at writing for them to take my letters, cards, emails and sexy tucked-in-your-lunchbox love notes seriously.

Over-zealous friends warned prospective love interests, saying, “Don’t trust it. Be careful he writes for a living, of course it’s going to sound good”. Bitter cows, I thought. 

The honesty in a love letter is the key, I think, rather than flowery prose - but this idea of Lane’s is going to turn that on its head.

Writing a romantic novella via The Lost Boys is going to be a test for my aptitude with words and may actually be one of the toughest challenges in my writing career.

LANE: My weakness for flowery romantic prose is by now well known. My lust for sentimental diatribes of the heart, which speak of the human spirit and our ultimate quest for love, has become my trademark literary signature.

A series of blogs exposing a blossoming summer love affair, the stinging pain of loss, and a romantic dash to Europe in pursuit of The Girl has gripped the nation’s blog-reading community and earned me a reputation as an up-and-coming Mills and Boon writer of some promise. Some have lauded my sickening metro-sexual rants and praised my honesty and complete lack of shame. Others have called for me to take cyanide and put us all out of our misery.

Which camp do you fall into Churchouse?

NICK: Don’t call me camp you loathsome Lothario of Language. Your stories have been lapped up by the female readers  of the Lost Boys (the guys like them too but are too hard to comment “aawwwwwww”). I have been called boring, staid, flaccid and hairy in comparison. The reality is only the latter is anywhere near the truth but you do seem to have a way with words that touch the heart … and make me want to puke.

Money makes the world go round, but it is an evil thing and I hate it (unless I win lotto).

Having resigned myself to working in a trade renowned for pitiful pay cheques I am constantly looking to save a buck here, save a buck there, while still living the life I became accustomed to on easy student loan money many moons ago.

I fondly remember the days when I could call the student loan line from my bed at 11am on a chilly Christchurch morning and ask for $1000 so I could go for a boozy weekend in Queenstown the next day.

“Certainly Mr Churchouse, you’ll have that in the morning,” the cheery reply would come. I think I may even have rubbed my palms together in glee.

My CD collection blossomed, I got a new snowboard, and rather than drink better beer, I just drank more.

I was lucky to have such luxuries, and was even luckier to be allowed to doss (bludge) at home after uni for a year so I could pay the bugger off.

The following few years were spent working on a luxury yacht kow-towing to some abnormally wealthy people whose idea of appreciation for the staff was to throw you a few US $100 bills. Ching, ching - the savings account back in NZ was like a Floridian cocaine dealer’s bling fund.

While the rest of you suckers are dragging yourselves from bed, forcing down dry toast and battling another blustery nor-wester to work – I’ll still be snuggled up under the covers. 

As you take the elevator to your box-like cubicles in your soul-destroying offices, I’ll be stirring beneath the bed sheets and contemplating whether to catch the tail end of Morning Report. 

As you switch on your computers, open your email and begin another dreary eight hours of legalised slavery, I’ll wander to the kitchen, make a big plunger of black coffee, then wander back to bed. 

Oh the joy of having a day off when the rest of the world must suffer the drudgery of another working week. 

I shouldn’t revel in others’ misfortune – but I must. 

In Christchurch last month for a world record dance attempt, I spotted this sign on the door of a local curry house.

It reminded me of a meal I had with a mate once.
It had been a while and we were just back in Wellington from university (okay so we are talking a LONG time ago) and we’d opted for a delicious curry and beer for dinner.

Both of us being large men, with somewhat of a competitive nature, when Jimmy ordered the vindaloo, I decided what the hell, it’s not often I order a vindaloo. “Sounds good, one for me too,” I replied. Then the waiter asked the standard question. “How hot?”

“Hot” said Jimmy, with a flicker of challenge in his voice.

I fell into journalism like a drunk Naenae bogan falls into a Courtenay Place gutter. I didn’t look where I was going. 

I could always string a few sentences together, I was interested in politics and quite frankly, I’d run out of all other options. 

As it turns out, I love it. Unlike Nick, I’m not a list man. I couldn’t plan a peanut butter and jam sandwich in my own pantry and I hardly ever think ahead. 

So a daily deadline gives me some much needed urgency and suits me just fine. 

There are great travel opportunities too. Why just last week I journeyed to beautiful Stokes Valley - and stationery-wise, you’re never short of pens. 

But the best part is the rush I get from battling the clock while chasing a big story. Magic. Makes me feel virile.  

But that’s not to say I don’t day dream about life taking a different path. I’m still young (ish) and there are other rackets in which I fancy chancing my arm.