Love

In my other life, I write book reviews.

As an avid reader...HA, HA- an avid reader ...try a psycho insane bis-natch who needs a book in her hand at all times just as much as that heroin addict on the corner needs their daily dose of the needle. God help all of you if somehow the creative energies of our authors dry up. If the muses decide to take a vacation, if Jim Bean suddenly decides to shut down their plants, if the dream fairy stops planting weird sparkly hunky vampires in the minds of Mormons, if people in the South suddenly stops molesting their children and no one can find anything to write about.

God Help You All!

Books, novels, short stories, badly written non-rhyming Haikus, the back of the freaking cereal box- it's my Ritalin, my Valium, my shot of Tequila morning, noon, and night. I can get a contact high simply by walking in the doors of a Barnes and Noble. Endorphins flood through the veins, falling-in-love hormones fill each crevice.

“I don’t understand where you find the time to read.”

Well I don’t understand how you don’t. Make a choice between you or a book- I choose the book- even a bad one, Even a suck-filled, crap-tastic, poorly written, poorly planned pile of barely coherent words strung together and held in place with gum. I choose the story.

Sorry, where was I?

So as a book reviewer…I often have no idea what on earth how to convey my feelings about a certain tale until I sit in front of the computer and the words come pouring out. I may have to grab a couple and throw them over my shoulder for luck but usually they come.

Some days…however…I just want to write…YOU SUUUUU-CK!

Your work, you know that prodigy you spent 2 years compiling and gently massaging between two covers is the worst thing I’ve ever read in my entire life. –And I read A LOT!



Still...

I choose you.

Love