Artemis Drifting

Just because she tippietoes, doesn't mean she's a creepin'.


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Unhappy icon for unhappy face.


No bashing, please, but in my study to figure out how to pace my new story – I picked up a couple of Koontz novels today. I know a lot of folk don’t like his subject matter for writing, or hell, they may not even like that genre of writing style – but I really like the way he delivers plot, characterization and drama without immersing the reader in unnecessary descriptives.


For instance: I really hate the new trend in recent novels to tell me every damned thing about every damned thing. What I mean by this is that a lovely protagonist will walk into a room, and the next 40 pages are dedicated to describing that dusty old chair (which isn’t even his favorite) and what it means, and then what it meant to the last 3 owners, the middle names of those owners and ON AND ON IN ENDLESS BULLSHIT. 


Is anyone else particularly annoyed by the tone of recent authors? The self-biography that describes everyone else BUT the damn person the book is actually about? Don’t go off and tell me ‘well, that’s the art of it.’ No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have to hunt through a book like Nicolas Cage in National Treasure to figure out who the main character is.


Here’s what gets me about the books that have been published in the last five years. The only way you can possibly enjoy some of these stories is if you are into intellectual masturbation. I feel like Dennis Miller (pre republican switch and monday night football) is consulting on half of these shitty novels. It is physically painful to get through some of these, no matter how well written, because you know the only way you can actually enjoy them in the end is if you are a pretentious bastard. You may pat yourself on the back after you’ve done something worthwhile, like donating food to a shelter – not after reading a book. Chortling to yourself because you actually enjoy reading books about quirky characters with even quirkier families written in a style where the author is playing down the quirkiness as if you, yourself, should think a family who paints with peanut butter and pigeon feathers is absolutely normal just makes me want to kick you in the teeth.


THOSE PEOPLE ARE JUST WEIRD, NOT INTERESTING, JUST WEIRD. ADMIT IT. MOVE ON. IT DOES NOT MAKE IT A GOOD BOOK. I am so sorry, but people just have to know this. Please stop trying to tell me that we can be friends just because we both enjoy reading literature. You’re not reading literature, you are reading Reality Television Scripts. And what’s so damn tragic about it, is those Reality Television Scripts are cunningly hidden within genuinely good writing.


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