I know, I know, the title for this post is awfully dramatic. I know that it’s a bold claim to make that now, officially, literature is dead, dying, or a fucking zombie shambling around the countryside as a hollow shell of it’s former self. Many people would disagree, but that’s only because not everyone has seen the utter horse shit on sale at the bookstore that I did. I want you to sit back, dear reader, and allow the following image to wash over. Relax, empty your mind and focus ahead only at this text and the preceding image. Behold:
Now, if the first thought in your head is ‘wow that looks like it could be pretty cool,’ I want you to do me a favor. Take your hand, ball it into a fist, and punch yourself right in the face. Besides my gut instinct to burst into a fit of mad laughter, there are several things gazing upon this majestic piece of surly Shakespearean art does for me.
First, it disturbs me, deeply. If you notice the top of the image states ‘New York Times Bestselling Author,’ a title, which means nothing anymore anyway. Lets face it, every shitty self-help book and half assed novel is apparently a ‘best seller.’ Just because people read it doesn’t mean it’s good. I mean the Ghost Rider movie made money, but it still sucked so much dick it practically imploded on itself sucking Nick Cage’s carrier further into an event horizon of complete epic failure. Basically the ‘New York Times Bestseller’ tag on a book just tells you that it’s popular amoung the same populace that thinks Micheal Bay is a good director, Adam Sandler is funny, and voted to elect George W. Bush president … TWICE.
Second, if you notice, this piece of *ahem* literary genius features the biggest over-romanticised cliche of all the world of fiction… vampires. Got a shitty book with a mediocre plot and boring characters? Just make one of them a vampire! INSTANT WIN! Suddenly your hunk of garbage is ‘deep, provocative and brooding’ sure to sucker idiots and young girls into buying it. Hence the success of the Twilight novels. Seriously, everything is about vampires nowadays, and I don’t get what is so romantic about a person who drinks blood and whines about having to do so. “Nyr my life is dark and tragyc like a raven’s tyr for I must drink teh bluud to live and yet it makes me an animal! Oh woe is me!” The amount of angst in a vampire novel is enough that if you condensed it you could use it to make 10 new Linkin Park albums. The author here kicks it up a notch on the lame scale, and basically it’s a about vampire fucking a fat girl (so as to appeal to the average readership of this slop) and the sex is super awesome! This is part of a bunch of vampire novels by the same author, hits such as…
A Girl’s Guide to Vampires (They don’t exist, enjoy settling for less in marriage.)
Sex and the Single Vampire (One you’re never gonna get and one isn’t real.)
Sex, Lies, and Vampires (The lie is that anyone would want to pork a fatty.)
Even Vampires Get the Blues (… wow that’s a really good title. Sad Vampires, that never happens.)
Just One Sip (Darker than a thousand crows drinking java in a coal mine.)
The Last of the Red Hot Vampires (Words escape me on this one, sorry.)
Zen and the Art of Vampires (Is this bitch just taking names of other books and then replacing one word with ‘Vampires’?)
But, hey, what do I know. I actually want to read things that make me think and have a nice coherent plot with a beginning, middle, and end. With clearly defined characters and motives that are realistic and that grow and change as the book progresses. Apparently my kind is a dying breed. Doesn’t matter if it’s good people, just if it’s marketable and if it’s just entertaining enough to be utterly forgettable. Which is why hacks like Stephen King still manage to churn out novels and people pop them like painkiller addicts. If this is the market that is to be where I attempt to lay my claim and my competition is a bunch of vampire novels and books about computer virus infected cell phones turning people into zombies, even if I fail, at least I can feel good about no fitting in for once.
You have to give the book one thing though, those sure are some bitchin’ shades on the cover. Corey Hart’s got nothing on this dude.
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