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By Ellie, August 24, 2010 10:45 pm

Dear Author,

There’s nothing more mentally draining than seeing your corpulent form waddle into the store. You just have this air about you, this arrogance born from stubborn blindness and a staggering refusal to accept reality. You certainly haven’t endeared yourself to us, but I doubt you realize that… or care.

As much as I detest you, the curious part of my brain wants to dissect your personality. It wants to find out how you work, why you’re the way you are today, and just where you think you’re going in terms of your “career.” I think I got part of an answer the last time we met.

I finished a first draft of about 141K words in three months. I didn’t expect that to impress you; I’m not saying it to impress anyone, even though I’m amazed with myself. What’s more amazing is the editing process ahead. With another draft or two, my novel is going to be even better than it was the first time around. Who wouldn’t look forward to writing a better story?

Well, there’s you.

I really should not have been surprised to hear that you don’t like editing your own work. It explains so much. I can understand the frustration and agony that comes with returning to a piece of work. But how can you just leave a first draft the way it is and declare it the final one? How can you say you don’t want to even think about looking over your work? I’ve seen your novels. God, how could I not? They’re sitting on the local authors shelf, glaring at me, tempting me to read them cover to cover and soak up the stupid like I’m in some biblio-alternative version of MST3K.

And I almost did get through the first one. Oh, I tried. But it was like eating a whole pack of lunch meat that’s about to spoil: you know it’s wrong and possibly lethal, and there’s a chance that maybe it won’t do too much cellular damage to your large intestine… but in the end, you toss that sick pack of compressed meat by-products. Because it’s just not worth it. The headache, the killer gas, the violent contractions that eventually end in the expulsion of everything you’ve eaten since you were born… it’s not worth it.

The shit-poor characterization. The sloppily indented paragraphs. The cheesy-ass dialogue. The obvious Stephen Kingness of it all. God, it’s seared into my gray matter, and no surgical tool can ever scrape it away.

No wonder an agent or editor hasn’t signed you on, and it’s no mystery that either never will. If you can’t brave even a glance at your first attempt, then you’re never going anywhere. You’ve been at this for longer than I’ve been alive, and you’ve been self-published. You’re not some undiscovered genius who’s been beaten down by elitist, snobbish publishers and agents and has found sanctuary with an overpriced printer. You’re a wasteland of plagiarizing, unimaginative so-called talent.

Ugh. It’ll be a fine day when you stop coming in, and an even better one when you step away from your keyboard and give up for good.

No love,

Me

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By Ellie, April 13, 2010 10:05 pm

Ever had someone discuss a book with you? Of course you have. We’ve all had that one person who can’t stop waxing philosophical about the story’s symbolism, the pure genius of carefully crafted prose, or the stark realistic personalities. Personally, I suspect some minor brain damage in these people, especially if they’re discussing the latest addition to pop culture that’s really nothing more than brain candy. (Give yourself a digital cookie if you guessed that I was talking about Twilight.)

But I seem to be a magnet for people who tell me–no, demand that I read a book, and then give their reasons why:

“It’s changed my life. I’ll never look at crawfish mucus the same way again.”

“You have to read this, you just have to! Their love is so true and complete, even if they’ve only known each other for a split second!”

“Omigod, this book is so worth your time! I, like, skipped school and work just so I could finish it. Likeomigod! I totally flunked Psych 101, butIduncare!” *giggle-smack-gum-twirl-hair*

Aside from the fervent raving, these people’s demands irk me in ways you can’t even imagine. First of all, if you tell me that a book is worth my time, you’re making some pretty big assumptions about me. Aggravatingly enough, it’s always a stranger who pulls this crap.

No one in my family or circle of friends has ever told me that a book is “worth [my] time.” Not because they’re afraid of me or because I’ve blown up at them. They know me too well to try to force a title in my already swollen to-read list. But they understand my humor and tastes; they’ll tell me about the books they’ve read. They might even suggest that I pick up one of these titles.

Suggesting and telling are two totally different things, after all.

“I really enjoyed this guy’s writing. He’s hilarious! You might enjoy this one, El…” is infinitely better than “Oh, you’ve gotta read this one! Your life will never be the same again!”

Why are you telling me to spend my precious time reading a book that I might not even enjoy? You don’t even know what I enjoy doing in my spare time. I don’t follow mainstream pop culture all that much. I’ve never watched American Idol and I make no plans to do so in the future. I’m a gal who enjoys going on TV Tropes to learn obscure trivia about Disney characters. I like to watch Super Mario Bros. cartoons. I grew up on MST3K and have done my own riffing on godawful novels. I go through phases where I read mysteries, then go on to romance, and then on to historical biographies. What the hell do you know about me?

If you must rave about how Wally Lamb wrote from the point of view of an overweight teenage girl with a peculiar obsession over a whale and ends up identifying with it (this is an actual book), and how you cried like a bitch afterwards, then do so. But don’t tell me that I HAVE to read it.

Besides, Dave Barry’s spoiled me for other male writers.

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By Ellie, December 14, 2009 9:56 pm

Dear Author,

If there’s a hell and I’m bound for it, surely I’ll find copies of you there… glaring around the brimstone caverns, arms crossed over your barrel chest, just seething for reasons unknown.

Well, there’s one reason why you’re so angry all the time. We learned that at the little get-together we held for all of our local authors. In fact, I learned many things about you that I’d have rather not learned.

Like the fact that you’ve had problems with the local newspaper. Most people do, whether it’s with the content in the feature stories or the fact that they never get their subscriptions. But when one of the writers announced that he has a weekly column, you just had to jump in about how you rarely get your paper delivered. What the hell did that have to do with a political column?

How about when another writer talked about his wife? Why did you have to jump in with, “Well, I’m about to become a single parent”? Just put a damper on an otherwise fun time, why don’t you?

And again with the stories about going with a “good publisher” (printer) who gives you an advance (doubtful) and is the best one you’ve been with (you laughing stock).

You were supposed to be there promoting yourself and your books. Why don’t you steer away from your bull sob stories and try making your “pitch” a little flawless? Every time you describe the premise of your first novel, you sound bored and restless. I doubt you even like your stories. You just want to publish something and make money. And you’re not even good at that.

The other authors were having a good time, promoting their books and making new friends. But you? Guh. Craving attention, that’s what you were doing.

It’s sad when a guy nearing his 50s still hasn’t figured out that people generally don’t like to hear about super depressing things when they’re at a pleasant get-together. It’s even sadder when he’s more interested in talking about himself than his own books.

It’s not supposed to be about you. It’s supposed to be about your books. Yes, you did write them, but unless you’re an engaging personality, people aren’t coming for you. They’re coming for stories. Damn good stories. Which you can’t provide.

What can I say? Miserable people usually write miserable stories.

No love,
Me

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By Ellie, December 7, 2009 2:32 pm

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