Dear Author,

Seeing your smug face is never the highlight of my day. But you know, if just seeing your face was the only interaction we ever engaged in, then I’d be happy with your coming around.

Instead, I have to hear, “Sold any books?” “How many books have you sold?” “What did you think of the book?” I hate how everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like a demand.

Then I have to deal with your self-indulgent attitude and silent, angry stares. Yes, I’ve seen you give me that look. I know you hate me for not promoting the hell out of your book. If you’re that damn desperate to sell books, promote them yourself. You chose to self-publish. Now self-market.

If your books were anything I’d want to read, then I’d promote them. But I’m not a fan of retro-Stephen King-esque writing. And I’m especially not a fan of writers who make their stories too similar to other, more successful authors’ works.

Yes, there are plenty of stories similar to King’s earlier works, but these other writers haven’t made it so obvious.

As if being a sucky writer wasn’t enough, you’re also a miserable human being. Has this endless cycle of failure turned you into someone incapable of showing gratitude and love? Is finding fame and fortune the only key to your happiness? It must be, because with all the other authors I’ve seen and met, they’re just happy to be out there promoting their books–and they have the love and support of their families.

Moreover, they don’t leave their child unattended in the children’s play area for hours. They don’t fling open their phone and spit, “What do you want?” to their spouses. And they don’t growl at their little girl when she wants her daddy to play with her at the train set you godawful shitbag of a human being. If having your daughter around is such an inconvenience, then leave her with someone who actually appreciates her existence.

You want to know the real reason why people buy your books? It’s not because they think you’re the greatest writer to ever live. It’s not because they think you’re a visionary who’s unlocked the secrets to the human psyche. It’s because they feel sorry for you. They see you sitting at that table, messing around on your Blackberry, with all your unsold books beside you. I can see the glazed looks in their eyes when you tell them about your Gary Stu and his otherworldly powers. They’re not interested. They just want to make you feel better. I would, too, if I didn’t know what kind of person you really are.

Stephen King would vomit if he ever read your books. Just looking at the shitty Photoshopped covers make me cringe.

You’ve been at this for maybe 30 years. And you still haven’t actually published a piece with a reputable publisher? You’re either deathly afraid of rejection or you just want instant gratification with a printer.

Yes, that’s right. That so-called publisher you signed up with? They’re a printer. If you paid to have your shit printed, bound, and delivered to your doorstep, you’re dealing with a fucking printer. And one of the most deceitful printers ever.

Real publishers never ask you to fork over money to publish your book. I’ve never had a book in print and I know this. Because I’ve been researching the industry for years, dumbass.

Of course, you claimed that you did extensive research, but you sifted through all the negative reviews about that printer just to get to the meager positive information. Information most likely written by the printer’s employees.

You’re so desperate to become successful that you’ll allow yourself to be taken for a ride. And when you fall flat on your face, you’ll become angry at a world who refuses to see your “genius.” You’ll take it out on your family who, for all I know, love you unconditionally and will support you until you’re too weak and addled with dementia to write another misspelled word in your paranormal Gary Stu chronicles.

But you want to know something? You’ll never find success. You don’t know the basic rules of writing, formatting, or grammar. You can’t even tell a decent story with interesting characters. You’re not going anywhere, buddy. And in a literary world already constipated from shit-awful books and self-entitled authors, that fills my little heart with absolute joy.

No love,

Me