Saturday, August 25, 2007

For things to come:

Nice to meet you, I am a book reviewer for a certain paper, in a certain city, in a certain state, in a certain United States of America. I didn't quite start out that way; I wanted to be an investigative reporter, but luck would have it, I'd be hired to write mountains of book reviews for books publishers sent to this certain paper.

It wasn't that I hated reading books, nor was it that I was temporarily forced into giving up my dreams of becoming the next Bob Woodward that I draw my mountain of negativity. Rather, it's the mountain of terrible terrible crap that is sent to the paper by publishers desperate for review.

One such publisher sent an advance reader's copy of a new book that promised mystery and drama. They later sent not one, not two, but three copies of the hardcover book to us in a second attempt to get us to review it. I grabbed my softcover advance reader copy and read through the 300 some odd pages from this book. The book made me hate the author and everything about it. It was a terrible book, and the author wrote it with that intention to make the reader hate the book by the time they're done reading it.

Reading up on other reviews written on the same book, they all read the same; mystery and intrigue, a good solid read, a cunning novel taking a different taste than previous works. I read it and laughed out loud in my cramped corner workspace. Book reviewers really do know how to make absolute trash sound at the very least acceptable for human consumption. I did it myself while writing this review in question, but I felt I needed to do more.... I needed to write a second review.

I need to let people know that there is such a thing as terrible fiction, and you don't have to be on the Nobel Prize Committee to denounce otherwise good works of fiction. Because sometimes, good fiction isn't really all that good after all.