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I like to think of myself as an optimist. It's not specifically true, but I like to think of myself that way. So for the last several months I've sat idly by and let Parade magazine slide off of my back. Why be angered by the fucktards of the Earth who can't figure out why David Caruso's character on CSI:Miami still drives a Hummer when, clearly, the cost of gas would cripple him on his cop's salary? In my new optimistic view, the fucktard who asked that question is getting the help she needs via extensive shock therapy as well as in depth discussions with her therapist concerning her inability to tell the difference between reality and whatever that place is where David Caruso is allowed to reside.
My new bout of optimism also precluded me from walking up to Janice Kaplan, the editor of Parade, at the recent Tucson Festival of Books, where we were both guest authors, and asking her the question on everyone's mind (well, apart from, "Who do you think will be the #1 dictator next year, Jan?"): What the fuck is wrong with your magazine? I mean, seriously, what the fucking fuck is it that allows you to employ a fictional entity, who, nevertheless, is a lie spewing fucktard and general sexist in Walter Scott and That Smug Bitch Marilyn Vos Savant? How do you sleep at night? Have you no soul? Well, truth be told, the other issue that kept me from the line of questioning above is that I didn't realize Ms. Kaplan was there until after I got home and by then it felt like a moot point. I didn't want to call on Superman to spin the earth backwards so that I could rectify the situation, feeling like I'd save that chit for something really important (like maybe if or when I accidentally kill a hooker or something).
In point of fact, my optimism has kept me fairly happy on a Sunday by Sunday basis of late. I find myself reading Parade and asking: What would Jesus have done if he'd, like I, read this drivel every Sunday for the duration of his short life? And the prevailing answer that came to me, each week, is that he would have tried to get the fuck off this tilting rock in space ASAP. Alas, I don't want to come back as a Zombie and i certainly don't want my likeness worn around the necks of people, so unlike Jesus, I've held onto this mortal coil. Optimistically, I figured Parade would just get better or I'd stop reading the fucktardery printed therein each week, but, man, quitting Parade is like getting off the oxycontin. Or Afrin. Or self-googling. That shit takes determination I just don't own. So, today, my optimism crumbling, I turned to the Personality Parade and found the following question:
Q Thriller novelist James Patterson has sold 150 million books. How does he do it?--C. Brodie, Knoxville, Tenn.
It's a great question, isn't it? Now, granted, my best selling book of all time is the one I wrote in three months, and which contains at least one scene of inexplicable shape shifting, so I might be speaking out of my ass here, but I think the answer boils down to this: People are fucking stupid. I heard Patterson speak a few years ago on his writing process and it boiled down to this: He comes up with an idea and then has someone else write it. And then, apparently, he goes in and cuts out all of the good stuff and what's left is white space and some dialog and then Ashley Judd reads it and decides she'd like to be the woman who is raped and then get her revenge. Here I will also admit that I've not read a Patterson book in several years, not since I read one poolside a few years ago and nearly drowned myself in abject anger. Or maybe it was after he was awarded the International Thriller of the Year Award in 2005...by his publisher, in essence. I encourage you to look for the winners of the award in 2006. Or 2007. Or 2008. I'll wait right here.
Now, before I come off as someone with sour grapes, let me state for the record: I have sour grapes. But I also find that whenever I meet someone who claims to be a big James Patterson fan, the conversation is always the same:
Me: So, what about his books do you like?
Fan: Well, he has really compelling mysteries.
Me: Really? Like they are hard to figure out?
Fan: Oh, no, I can usually figure them out pretty quickly, but they have really interesting serial killers in them.
Me: Why do you like serial killer books?
Fan: I like to melt stuff.
The point being, fans can never tell me just what it is they admire about the man's work. But at least they are reading, right? Even if they are reading books about serial killers. But the reason I say people who read his books are fucking stupid is a bit more complex: I just wonder how many would read the books by his fiction vetting elves/co-authors if they ran across them in the bookstore? Probably very few as they are buying a brand vs. buying a book by an author and that just feels fucking stupid to me. Walter Scott, who knows something about co-authors, says:
A.Patterson--who seems to be a permanent fixture on best-seller lists--creates 50-page outlines and then decides which novels he'll write and which he'll collaborate on. This year, there will be two books by Patterson alone and seven others that he'll co-write.
This in no way answers the question in the least, of course, because answering the question with any kind of factual data is beyond the purview of Parade, but it does offer an exciting glimpse into Patterson's process...which is roughly akin to throwing shit at the wall and seeing what sticks.
I've been throwing shit at the wall at work for nearly 6 1/2 years, and in my opinion, the walls of the government building in which I work are covered in vegetable oil.
Posted by: Yvonne Navarro | March 30, 2009 at 05:57 PM
I've been throwing shit at the wall since 2006, and God damn, does it stink in here.
Posted by: Graham | March 30, 2009 at 06:54 PM