July 27, 2003
Book Burning
I want to talk about being a librarian. Or, should I say, not being a librarian? These days, the Cincinnati Public Library is more like a de-glorified Blockbuster video. With Nora Roberts.
Who needs to get a life.
Along with Amanda Quick, Belva Plain, Dick Francis, Ann Rule, Louis L'Amour, W.E.B. Griffin, Barbara Delinsky, Dean Koontz, Ken Follet, Catharine Coulter, Tim Lahaye, Fern Michaels, Lavryle Spencer, Mary Higgins Clark, Zane, Sandra Brown, Tom Clancy, Janet Oke, and Nicholas Sparks. Who may or may not be the gay lover of Andrew M. Greeley, who is either v. gay or v. Christian. Possibly both.
And, most obviously, the Queen of Trashy Novels, the Big D.S. I cannot speak her name lest it drive my muse away in sheer terror, though I am sure you all know of whom I speak.
Also. Committee of Vile Women who write craft books. Stop. It's all been done before, okay? As for the little coalition you have going with the Committee of Loathsome Creatures who write cookbooks, it clearly has to stop. If I wanted to eat Tuscan cousine on my bargain embroidery tablecloth under the glare of hand painted light fixtures, I'd fucking go to Tuscany, okay?
And bottles full of olive oil and herbs? Tacky.
Excuse me while I kick over this rack of paperback romance novels, set it on fire, chuck in both copies of Forest Park's Sweet Home Alabama on DVD and dance madly around the sweet blaze of destruction.
If I ever become an author, my goal is to not write too many books.
If I offended anyone's taste in literature, I suppose I apologize. But I must say, do not be afraid to branch out. There is more out there than the best seller list, despite popular and persistent belief.
Besides, I occasionally read trashy YA fiction, and I deserve as many slaps as anyone.
astera at 8:55 p.m.