I don't hate HER, mind, having never met her. I hate the plotless books.
To be fair, I never classified them as Great Literature. I'm a voracious reader (or Tonstant Weader, if you prefer) and usually I read Literature, but occasionally I deliberately seek out bubblegum for the brain. In other words, there are books you can take to grad school and read out in the quad between classes and not be ashamed that you are seen reading them, and books that you buy to read in the bathtub simply because reading the shampoo bottle over and over 4,500 times get boring and you're compelled to READ SOMETHING due to your personal mental tics and quirks. In classification A we have classics and "edgy" writers like Sedaris, Palahniuk, Welsh, Tarte, Helprin, et cetera. In classification B we have Stephen King, Dean (R.) Koontz and LKH. Though I'd rather be caught reading King than LKH any day. He can, at least, spell and frequently has a plot in there with the "tl;dr" bits which, despite being "tl" I do actually read.
It's getting embarrassing, really.
I like detective novels, and books about metaphysical / fantasical subjects (when well done, and I am picky) and murder mysteries / true crime, and all of these generally are brain bubblegum and fine for what they are. When I happened upon LKH's series and it appeared to be a combo of the above, I was hopeful. In fairness, the first few books actually had a semblance of plot and some character development (of a sort), even if the most inobservant morons on the planet would find it worrisome that Anita Blake is written to resemble the full-colour ego-photo of LKH on the book cover. (Quick guide to rating book suckiness: no photo=serious literature, maybe a textbook; small black and white photo=possibly serious literature, but publisher appears worried that minions won't buy book without brand recognition of broody author glamour shot; colour photo=serious wankiness abounds; full-colour full-size cover shot of author=pure and unadulterated crapola. (If author's full colour photo is on the FRONT cover, it is the lowest form of dreck imaginable; clearly LKH is but one rung above the lowest depths of shite because her photo is "only" full-sized and in full colour on the BACK of the books.) Examine your bookshelf and see the truth of this for yourself.)
I, too, am amused by the notion that it takes Special People to appreciate the genius literary talent that is LKH and that anyone who has a legitimate gripe about the horrible proofreading (one thing the books are good for is keeping your red pencils sharpened), the lack of plot progression / actual plot content dwindling from 75% of total book content to about 5% or less, and the increasingly lengthy and increasingly boring sexual hang-up therapy session wankiness from Anita Sue Hamilton's sexual quirks and kinks (none of which make for enlightening or engaging reading) is mean-spirited, hateful, negative and/or clueless.
Whenever authors attack their fanbase, that's a sure sign that their books are reaching Critical Suckfulness Mass and are due to Implode from the weight of accumulated crapfulness any day now. Duck and cover! Duck and cover! Shitbomb counting down to zero! Plot is missing and considered dead. Characters now so two-dimensional that they will disappear if viewed from the side. Further regession into inevitable one-dimensionality will involve characters being sucked into the vacuous vacuums of their own lovingly-described genitalia and/or rectums. Warning: will also contain lovingly detailed descriptions of angsty vampires and their undead erect penises. Woo yay!
I love you all with the fire of a 1,000 burning suns!
I don't hate HER, mind, having never met her. I hate the plotless books.
To be fair, I never classified them as Great Literature. I'm a voracious reader (or Tonstant Weader, if you prefer) and usually I read Literature, but occasionally I deliberately seek out bubblegum for the brain. In other words, there are books you can take to grad school and read out in the quad between classes and not be ashamed that you are seen reading them, and books that you buy to read in the bathtub simply because reading the shampoo bottle over and over 4,500 times get boring and you're compelled to READ SOMETHING due to your personal mental tics and quirks. In classification A we have classics and "edgy" writers like Sedaris, Palahniuk, Welsh, Tarte, Helprin, et cetera. In classification B we have Stephen King, Dean (R.) Koontz and LKH. Though I'd rather be caught reading King than LKH any day. He can, at least, spell and frequently has a plot in there with the "tl;dr" bits which, despite being "tl" I do actually read.
It's getting embarrassing, really.
I like detective novels, and books about metaphysical / fantasical subjects (when well done, and I am picky) and murder mysteries / true crime, and all of these generally are brain bubblegum and fine for what they are. When I happened upon LKH's series and it appeared to be a combo of the above, I was hopeful. In fairness, the first few books actually had a semblance of plot and some character development (of a sort), even if the most inobservant morons on the planet would find it worrisome that Anita Blake is written to resemble the full-colour ego-photo of LKH on the book cover. (Quick guide to rating book suckiness: no photo=serious literature, maybe a textbook; small black and white photo=possibly serious literature, but publisher appears worried that minions won't buy book without brand recognition of broody author glamour shot; colour photo=serious wankiness abounds; full-colour full-size cover shot of author=pure and unadulterated crapola. (If author's full colour photo is on the FRONT cover, it is the lowest form of dreck imaginable; clearly LKH is but one rung above the lowest depths of shite because her photo is "only" full-sized and in full colour on the BACK of the books.) Examine your bookshelf and see the truth of this for yourself.)
I, too, am amused by the notion that it takes Special People to appreciate the genius literary talent that is LKH and that anyone who has a legitimate gripe about the horrible proofreading (one thing the books are good for is keeping your red pencils sharpened), the lack of plot progression / actual plot content dwindling from 75% of total book content to about 5% or less, and the increasingly lengthy and increasingly boring sexual hang-up therapy session wankiness from Anita Sue Hamilton's sexual quirks and kinks (none of which make for enlightening or engaging reading) is mean-spirited, hateful, negative and/or clueless.
Whenever authors attack their fanbase, that's a sure sign that their books are reaching Critical Suckfulness Mass and are due to Implode from the weight of accumulated crapfulness any day now. Duck and cover! Duck and cover! Shitbomb counting down to zero! Plot is missing and considered dead. Characters now so two-dimensional that they will disappear if viewed from the side. Further regession into inevitable one-dimensionality will involve characters being sucked into the vacuous vacuums of their own lovingly-described genitalia and/or rectums. Warning: will also contain lovingly detailed descriptions of angsty vampires and their undead erect penises. Woo yay!