A Gent's Outlook

A Literary Agent Divulges the TRUTH about Publishing

Saturday, October 29, 2005

How Journalists Ruin the World

And heeeeere's Marley...SK

Jesus fucking Christ, people! For the last goddamn time—being a journalist does NOT qualify you to write fiction, genre or otherwise! Do I have to explain this again? I don’t care how many fucking awards you win bringing down the mayor for dipping his pen into his city controller’s ink. Or for photographing the local dog catcher fondling Fido. You still need to get some training to write fucking novels.

Writing isn’t writing isn’t writing. It’s all different, you dumbfucks, or did you miss that day in Journalism 101? You know what I hate about journalists who want to write fiction? These are the same nitwits who have screwed up everyday news reporting because they can’t write based on the facts. Ooooh, no! Their muse convinces them to jazz it up a bit, because most of them are frustrated wannabes anyway, and so now when I read Newsweek, I get gobbledy-gook with biased language and mistakes instead of THE FACTS. Someone told you that no one wants to read plain old news—they need a little sensationalism. And you went, “Eureka!”

Great. Just fucking great.

Figure out what the hell you want to do as a writer, and if you want to be a novelist, deal with the fact you will be starving, but happy as a pig in shit. Borrow some balls, for God’s sake, and head on down your pre-destined life path. Don’t go to journalism school hoping to make the leap into fiction someday—you fuckers are ruining the print media and trade publishing. Hey, being a literary agent isn’t the easiest job in the world, but it’s who I goddamn am.

I can always tell a book by a journalist. Instead of maintaining the sparse quality of news writing and integrating it into their novels, these yo-yo’s just let the flood gates open wide, and out pours miles and miles of verbal garbage (usually in the form of similes, metaphors, metatags, whatever) that should have been dealt with in 7th grade. Scene setting, descriptive narrative, exposition out the ass, overuse of “be” and on and on. See below:

Patrick was surprised at the condition of the door. It was warped, and the paint was peeling like a snake shedding its skin, lending the same animal-like quality to the antique that Patrick was feeling inside himself. The cool November breeze was blowing ever so gently against the faded curtains that were making a frame around its lonely little porthole-like window. Leaves were dancing across the red brick, newly renovated, rectangular-shaped patio, and Patrick couldn’t help but wonder, and the breeze was tickling his nose hairs, why his mother named him after the next door neighbor.

Shakespeare may have written, “To be or not to be,” but Marley says, “Fuck “to be”, just goddamn use strong verbs and cut the shit, Eddie R.!” If there were a journalist who could switch over to writing tight, lean prose of any kind, that writer would stand a fair chance of getting published for more than goddamn name recognition and the world would be a better place. At least my world would be. I could pay my goddamn rent.

Fuck you, Journalists,

Friday, October 28, 2005

Grapes of Wrath

It's been brought to my attention (Hey, asshole, you suck!) that I do not help writers on my blog. The complaintant stated that I made fun of you all--call you wannabes and such--and that someone with my experiences and expertise should be more helpful.

I would answer that I am helpful. I try to discourage those who have no hope of ever getting successfully published, which includes the vast majority of writers--98% of you, in fact (that's like 1-2 out of every 1000). Isn't it better to be aware right upfront than to waste otherwise productive time in a hopeless endeavor? Ask any couple going through fertility treatments.

Because I don't pander to and solicit writers, because I don't suck up like Agent 007 and Miss Snark (Tough love? Are you kidding?) , it is assumed ol' Sammy doesn't care. But yet not very well concealed in all my posts are pearls of wisdom. Clues, hints, road signs pointing the path to success on the publishing highway. You just have to look for them and know what to do with them when you find them. This blog is a metaphor for the publishing industry. Figure it out, and you get the key to the literary city.

Snark on 7 Action

I was surfing my way through the blogs last evening, looking for a site with some naughty editor pix, when I came upon a posty-poo written by Miss Snark in which she severely verbally beat Agent 007 about the head and shoulders.

Oh my, I wasn't aware! What happened girls? Was it a turf war or something?

I leave you girls alone for just a little while, and what do you do but fight? For shame! Is it because ol' Sammy isn't paying enough attention to you literary lovelies or what? If you are going to fight, might I suggest naked mud wrestling (and we can substitute whip cream for the mud)? Let me know when it going to happen and we'll advertise--do I smell Pay-Per-View here?

To whit, my lovelies, put your differences aside! There is enough Sammy to go around! I am all rested up after Paris, London, etc., and I have a referee's uniform (don't ask, but I keep it beside the spare cheerleader's uniform in my closet, right next to the bunny suit) that's ready for action. Just tell me when, and you can blow my whistle any time.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

The Skinny on Big Fat Corporate Publishers

So, I keep getting letters from folks who want the dirt on publishers. “When you gonna dish on them bastards?” is the distinct message I get, ever so subtly. Something about a dog biting the hand that feeds it that just turns people on, and I am all for that. Here goes…

You want to know about publishers? Most of them suck. There are some who still try to get actual readable books out there while making a buck, but the majority cares about money, and only money. Unfortunately, they publish shit based on name recognition and trends, and just about everything else successful is a happy accident.

Do you know what my job is? Navigating around the dipshits who run publishing houses. Sometimes the editors are in on it with me and sometimes they aren’t. I know what publishers want to sell, and I represent talented individuals who know how to disguise quality in bullshit. It is an art, I tell you, and we are good at it. We slip in good books under the guise of grade-A prime horseshit, and the publishing house doesn’t know any different because:

1. Readers are getting a great read, so they buy the book.
2. Dumbfucks who buy the book for some lameass reason like the pretty cover art (yes, sometimes marketing departments are right) still get to live under the illusion that they got themselves a good book, even though they wouldn’t know a good book from a bad book unless it was stamped on the cover.

See how this shit works? My job went from peddling good books that could turn a dime to trafficking black market literature masked as commercial glop.

Now ask yourself, are you that talented that you can create something for everyone—greedy publishers, gullible consumers, avid readers, AND your artistic muse? Well then, I would love to see your shit. The thing about wannabes is they tend to not want anything except adoration for their work, and I gotta have someone who can work it, baby, work it. Churning out what you think is the next bestseller isn’t good enough these days; it has to be packaged just right. It has to have the boob job, tummy-tuck, and face-lift, whether it needs it or not. Publishers don’t look at the final result of the surgery, they just need to see the scars to know that your work endured it. Yep, it looks commercial, smells commercial, and tastes commercial, it must be commercial, even if it does have words over 5 letters in it.

And that, minus several other expletives, is what I think of publishers.

Monday, October 24, 2005

I Got This Feeling Like Someone is Watching Me

So I get home and on my e-mail is some watch group crackhead wanting me to send him an updated list of sales. If I don’t, he admonished, he would have to tell writers about my “nonexistent” sales record. Here is the irony: I have been a part of more best-sellers than I can remember, and this dumbass can’t apparently find the sales record. And HE threatens ME with exposure! Who is this fucking person? What a dumbfuck. I should expose him right here for not having the brains to find a big old elephant in a tiny little room. However, I am too much of a gentleman. So I e-mailed and told him to fuck off.

But that is typical for watch groups like Writer Beware and Preditors and Editors, among others. One of the major problems in the industry is that any schmuck can start a site to “help” writers (and I agree, wannabes need LOTS of help, but none of these sites offer lobotomies, so they are useless). Usually it is for techniques for avoiding scammers. They should look in the mirror. Do you know some of these sites actually recommend publishers and agents who are scammers, or just plain incompetent? Some even sponsor (by which I mean donate money to)sites that take in revenue from advertising services for hire for writers. Either they are completely clueless or on someone’s payroll somewhere. As I have mentioned before, what qualifies these folks as watch dogs? What qualifies anyone as a watchdog?

The problem I have with all watch groups is that they encourage mediocre and plain old crappy writers by intimating that it isn’t your shitty writing that is holding you back, but all those nasty people cheating you. Oh my God, everyone is a scammer! Here is how that shit works: As long as you scare the shit out of writers, they will keep coming to you for protection and advice, and you remain in control. I have met some of the nasty motherfuckers who run these watch groups, and they are arrogant, unpleasant, and feed off of the power they get from being in the know. They stretch the truth to make themselves look righteous. They lie, they stalk, and their information is iffy at best. Hell, I know ministers I would trust more, and, for me, that is saying a lot.

This helps writers how? In short, it doesn’t.

Here is what you need to know:

1. If you have tried all the legitimate agents and everyone rejected you, your writing probably sucks. Shelve it until you can learn how to write.
2. To learn how to write, take a class from a legitimate source, not some place who advertises the editors and agents who will help you hone your writing. This is a big ol’ scam that has been operating for years. And for God’s sake, don’t take writing courses from published authors. They are the WORST! I get shit from graduates from these “courses” all the time, and they don’t know how to write. And most editors and agents who work for them don’t know how to teach or edit or agent—they just need the extra cash. They have no intention of taking on your lameass shit. But they will take your money.
2. Never trust a watch group who sponsors a writer’s board or sponsors any entity who offers a service for hire for writers. Sleazy.
3. Never trust anyone who is sponsored by a group who has their very own literary agent on staff.
4. Never buy how-to books written by authors whose only credentials include some kind of college degree and the book that they are selling you. Jesus, what does an MFA know about commercial publishing? Usually nothing. And yet at conferences I always see “book editors” who have written how-to books on, let’s say romance, for example, but they have never, ever written or published a romance. Do I even need to tell you this? If you want to learn how to write a novel, sit down and try it. Get it edited. Write another one. Get it edited. Write a third, and get it edited, too. That is how you learn to write, by actually writing and getting feedback from a professional, not a Phd or a writer’s board. Get off the boards and in your computer chair. Quit looking for support and excuses not to revise. Writers who don’t want to take the time to revise are usually the ones who get scammed. Those who take shortcuts to get what they want usually get taken by those who know how to shortcut better than they do.

Jesus, I am just too old for this shit.

Sammy's Back, Baby!

Sammy’s Quiz

1. What happened to Sammy in Europe?
a. He got laid.
b. He made some great deals
c. He drank as much wine and beer as humanly possible.
d. All of the above

If you dumbshits answered anything but D, you, as the song laments, don’t know me. Europe was great and I hated to come home to the NYC hustle, hustle go-go-go bullshit. Weather was about the same, but it’s slower there, you know? Not so capitalist. But, to NYC’s credit, the plumbing is much better.

Oh well…

On the long trip home I wrote out my next post, mainly because I was inspired by the goings on in Frankfurt. Let me ask you, what kind of people clamber after some drugged out, anger-filled sort of rocker turned actress just because she is willing to shill on her dead husband and her living kid? Complete losers, that’s who (hey, there is a reason I remain anonymous—it’s called backlash, baby, backlash). The industry is getting even sleazier, and so my next few posts will be about the crap that is bringing us all down. There is just too much for one post. However, the highlights include:

writers’ organizations
watch groups
publishers (and, yes, I do work with them, too)

And ooh so many more! I would talk about the great deals that were made, but, honestly, there weren’t that many that actually serve the greater good, or any good for that matter. The most talk was about how Google is trying to screw writers. I say, go for it, Googly-Bear! You screw ‘em good!

Mainly, those deals made in Hotdog City serve to put mula in the pockets of the pinheads running the corporations. Have you ever been in an industry you helped build, only to watch a bunch of sniveling outsiders bring it down just so they can say they have had a little taste of it? God forbid these losers work for it. No, it is much easier to play career dress-up. The problem is, those are my goddamn clothes you are wearing!
Jesus, I’m getting too old for this shit.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Be Back After Frankfurt

God, I love Europe!! The weather is wonderful, the beer is great, the wine superb, and the women have such cute, ah, accents. Everything is expensive and that’s not a big plus (Dollar to Euro conversion and all) but the value is well worth it.

The blog will suffer until I get back. But for some, that’s a big plus. Marley will be at the Buchmesse too, so she can’t do it, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else. Hell, I barely trust her. She is all too willing to do a post with nothing but expletives in it, just for fun, she says. I say she’s a loon with a potty mouth, but she sells a helluva lot of books.

Und so, mein liebchens, tschuss und prost, and ich hoffe dass sie etwas ass getten auch. Ich weiss dass ich werde! Or whatever.

Heh heh heh, the women LOVE me over here. I’m a smooth-talkin SOB in more than one language! I might even sell some rights…yeah!


Saturday, October 08, 2005

The One That Got Away

I saw her the other day…a girl—no, the girl—I dated between wives two and three. She was the one that got away. Big ta-tas, sort of big hair, a penchant for wine and cheese, and she liked to remain naked, just like I am now, most of the time. What a broad! She could out-curse Marley, but she could also be such a lady. Especially in the sack. You know the type I mean, guys. The one that reminds you of the teacher you always wanted to boink, the porn star you did boink, and the first lady you would have boinked if the Secret Service stick hadn’t gotten done in the john so soon. That kind of girl. She could do things that would make your head spin, and I don’t mean the one on your shoulders. Yet she liked to read poetry to me in bed, which is mighty hard to do when you are hanging upside down like that.

Anyway, I couldn’t get to her in time to ask for a second date. Why? Because a writer I had been avoiding—let’s call her The Wicked Bitch of the East—spotted me. She really wants to get her hooks into me, but only so I can represent her. But her reputation preceded her. She was all smiles to me, but she had dumped a good friend of mine when he tried to get her to do a simple revision. She gave me her card, and I told her I’d think about it…again. “You’d better not think too long, “ was her vampy reply.

This is a classic case of the “You can have her, I don’t want her” syndrome. There are some writers you just can’t work with, and that number is constantly going up. I thought there might be something in the water—or maybe the vodka—a Russian plot or something. Then I realized it’s what reader have encountered on bookstore shelves. I’ve coined it the “All About Me” disease. It seems to run rampant whenever writers begin to think the world cannot exist without them. Sorry, writers, when it comes to literature, there is only one group that we cannot do without, and writer hacks are shitting all over them. And me, too, considering I got cornered by Bitchy-poo, which prevented me from nailing, er, chatting with my ex-lust buddy.

All I can say is, wherever you are right now, Paris, maybe next time, baby. Maybe next time.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Marley Does Poe

Here is another post by our beloved Marley Barley. Fair warning, she uses strong language sometimes (at this point you should laugh at my use of understatement—don’t ask why, just do it it and you will be ahead of the game, I assure you).

Jesus fucking Christ people, is all you do whine? How about changing the “h” to an “r” and the “n” to a “t”? That’s right, fucking write goddamn something. Agents like clients who write and write and write, then actually produce something publishable. It takes a while. If I get one more query where some dickhead tells me he finished his novel in 3 months, my nipples will spontaneously drop off. Sammy told me I got a bunch of comments about my Hemingway posts, and my response to those literary sticks is, “Go fuck yourselves.” Perpetuating miserable writing on students—or anyone--just because you are too lazy to read modern literature is in excusable and offensive. Fuck you again.

And just to make it worse, I am going to re-write Poe. That’s goddamn right; I am re-writing that drunk motherfucker’s work. How do you like that? Read and learn, Dr. Bozos…

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was; but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon opium—the bitter lapse into every-day life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it—I paused to think—what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher?

Marley's Corrected Poe:
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, I rode alone within view of the melancholy House of Usher. Gloom pervaded my spirit as I looked upon the scene before me, a simple landscape reflecting the utter depression of a soul tortured by an unredeemed dreariness of thought. What was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher?

Set the scene my ass! Get to it Eddie, get to it! If Poe made love like he wrote, his partners probably died before he got to the good stuff. No wonder he had a thing for dead women. See how easily that was explained? Someone’s dissertation just went down le toilet, didn’t it?

Fuck you,

IMO, MLO, No They Don't

This question was posed by a writer:

And how important is appearance in the literary world today?

And here is my opine on the subjectivo...

So, are you asking if how ugly you are makes a difference in whether you get published or not? Have you looked at pictures of authors lately? Have you? The NYT best-selling authors and some Pulitzer prize winners I know aren’t that easy to look at, I’ll tell you (but they are beautiful, remember). I wouldn’t suspect any of them getting where they are unless they are proportionally as good in the sack as they are hard to stare at. I guess the most direct answer is maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Depends on the publisher and what level they are at. Yes, I’ve seen hormones play a role in getting a book out there, and I am sure my reputation has preceded me in quite a few negotiations (no, I never put out until after the deal is signed), but I have also seen good writing make it. If you are worried about your looks, don’t. You should worry about your writing. That’s all. If you write really well, you make it at some point. If your writing sucks, then looks might help, but your mouth will get sore from all the blow jobs you’ll have to give. Definitely not worth in my opinion.

The Fall of the Empire, Chick-Lit Part Deux

This just in: I found a news article proclaiming that archeologists have discovered at Pompeii an ancient chick-lit novel. That explains the fall of the Empire. I bet the fire at the library in Alexandria had nothing to do with a raging battle—the old librarians probably found a chick-lit novel and set it ablaze under the cover of war. Civilization as we know it survived only because of their efforts. God, I love librarians.

Chick-lit represents our miserable cultural malfunction wherein everyone can’t see past their own problems (don’t you know it’s all about me?). You know, I had an agent friend tell me a few years ago that she was disappointed at the new types of novels (stay with me here, clueless, she meant chick-lit) that were creeping in under the guise of being more sophisticated and sexy romance-type reads. She basically thought they were books by hacks who didn’t have much control of their writing and that they were targeted toward women who had laughed at their mothers for reading trashy love novels—snotty ingrates. The publishers have been laughing all the way to the bank by repackaging rejected, poorly written romances—just like mama used to ignore--and renaming them with a cool moniker that would attract the vacuous generation who would find it entertaining that some dingy (sorry, I meant quirky) broad can’t find a man because she is too empowered, yet vulnerable at the same time. How about because she is a dipshit?

Let me ask you, what is wrong with being single? Why do all the singles of any gender have to hang out in group therapy-type three or foursomes like some loathsome Sex in the City knock-offs, traveling in packs? I see these huddled, befuddled masses wandering through our fair city all the time. Why do we angst about being alone so goddamn much? You know when you should worry about being alone? When you are in a situation where you are elderly, sick and forgotten by society, and then a hurricane comes and you have two choices: evacuate from the only safety you have ever known, knowing that most of your needs will not be met and you will be scared, frightened and forgotten among a large group of strangers who could hurt you, or stay where at least you have felt safe in the past and risk getting blown away. When you’re facing dogpaddling in fetid floodwaters up to your craggy neck for days on end, unable to get to food or medicine or clean water, that’s when you should worry about being by yourself. Until then, fucking deal with it and quit whining. Or call my 1-800 number.

I know smart women who are offended by these books. I know kind women who volunteer to help others who think the characters need to grow up (and so do the chicky editors who identify with these screw-up protagonists and acquire this shit thinking that’s how EVERYBODY lives). I know sexy women who smirk at these misfits who don’t know what to do with the gifts God gave them (and if you don’t know what that means, ask a breast cancer survivor)—they always want more, bigger, or better instead of biding their time for the right schmuckaroo to come along to pay for the lifestyle to which they have become accustomed. Yeah, I know what you are thinking, and yes, I do know lots of women. I also know writers who can write much better who have been bumped from publisher’s lists (not mine, by God) because their space on the bookshelves is taken up by this pitiful British invasion. Hell, the British don’t even want it anymore! They passed it off to us! They started it there and let it spread like a disease across the ocean. Wanna know what I think? I think it’s cleverly disguised revenge for the American Revolution—it started with the Beatles and the Animals, and they just keep lobbing more inane shit our way. Thanks, Tony B., we all love you, too.

May your wickershires dredge a podgethacket in your cornswaggled wildebeast, you %$& basketsnatchers.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

And a Few More for the Road

From an editor:

I hate going to writing conferences. Every year, because I am very visible in the field and my name gets out a lot, I get asked to a bunch of different ones, but I am starting to turn them all down. Why? Because I feel like a piece of meat, that’s why. If I go and the organizers pay my way, I have to be open to looking at manuscripts from the participants. In the past, if I said that I didn’t find any that appealed to me, the organizers were cool about it. Now if I don’t find anything to look at, they get mad and kind of give me the impression that only editors who are request their writers’ work will be invited back. Then they invite me again the next year. I just can’t deal with this kind of bullshit for the few manuscripts I get that might be publishable. In all, I think I have ever only found one that we actually published, and that was years ago.”

From an agent:

Writers always ask me why I quit sending anything but a form rejection. Well, I used to send comments or a little feedback on the manuscripts that were almost there, but two things happened: 1) People would write me back and argue, even when I said it was only my opinion and 2) I found out some of my comments were being posted on the web with writers making nasty or glib comments about them. I was trying to be helpful and polite, but with technology today, I guess I discovered that often writers don’t return the favor.”

From a publisher:

I don’t see many publishers weigh in on these blogs, so I thought I would put my two cents worth in. I am an associate publisher at a house in a big city, and the bottom line for us is that a book has to make money as quickly as possible. Most books don’t. People don’t read anymore. I don’t blame the readers, either, but rather the publishers who starting focusing solely on the almighty dollar. Most people who used to read have just given up. If they had kept trying to promote good books, then I wouldn’t have to publish some of the dreck that we get by brainless celebrities to keep an edge in this shitty, decaying market. I miss publishing books that I feel good about, but I have stockholders to answer to.”

From a publisher:
I get so tired of people bitching about this industry. It is about giving consumers a product they want, not about “literature.” I don’t get paid to enrich the world. I get paid to make a company money and entertain a target audience. Get over it.”

From a mailroom clerk:
Do you guys have any idea where your submissions go? Into the slush pile or into the trash, and so far the trash is winning. No one looks at slush anymore except desperate summer interns who are trying to make themselves useful at something so they can keep a job in the fall. They plow through the pile, rejecting everything, and then I pile more on their desks. You should see the looks on their faces!

I'm Here for You, Baby!

Oh, I’ve heard it before! “I want to be there for you Writ-tas. I get all warm and fuzzy when I think that I might help someone.”

Translation: I get warm and fuzzy when you flock to me and make me rich beyond my wildest dreams.

Folks, I don’t know if you understand this yet or not, but I’m here to tell that agents don’t really like each other. And you say, “Oh noooo, Sammy, this cannot be true!!” Oh, but it is, my little rumcakes. And even as I say it, the many clamber louder, “But there’s the AAR, right? It’s like a club and so fine and true. And the members have parties and eat at each other’s houses and celebrate each other’s successes, and…”

God, I hate to burst your bubbles, but, honestly, we just don’t get along. Why? Because agents compete for those precious few of you who write well enough to make us money. Those who can really write are a rare commodity, and, like those gold miners—those nasty ‘49ers—we jump claims and steal the golden ones from each other. We do it cause we love ya’, okay? (big hugs all around)

So don’t perpetuate that crap about “I’m only here for you”, lovely blogging agent dears. The wool itself has eyes—even a wolf can see that. Wink, wink.

Chick-lit is a Literary Gum that Should Be Chewed by God, by God!

Normally when a sexy broad with big ta-tas asks me to dinner, as just happened recently, I am flattered and usually fighting an erection. Hell, even if she didn’t have big ta-tas, I would be erect at the thought of a free meal. But no, this one had to spoil it by telling me not only that she is a writer, but a chick-lit writer. Flacid cannot describe my shriveled, er, ego. Let’s just say if the rest of me went that flat, they could have slid me easily under a door.

The first time someone asked me if I wanted a “chick-lit”, I thought they meant the gum and said, “Why the fuck would I want that? Does my breath smell or something?” As it turned out, even though I was way off on the topic, it was a good call. I have never jumped on that sucky trend, and don’t intend to either. No matter how tight you babes tie me up with your Gucci silk scarves, bought for you, no doubt, by the love of your life who jilted you and crushed your soul so that you could never love anyone else ever again. In that case, Sammy is just the ticket for you…but definitely not the agent for your shitty “sophisticated romance” wannabe books.

Chick-lit is meaningless drivel—mainstream by so-so authors who can’t master romance or the art of mainstream—disguised by a marketing term designed to make readers feel included in a hip, sexy club filled with empowered sisters. What is so sexy about a woman who can’t find her ass, even though it is supposedly huge in her eyes, with both hands? To me, that qualifies her as a dipshit. Who wants to read about a dipshit? Looks like other dipshits do. What is so intriguing about reading about people who have so many opportunities they can’t imagine how they will choose a life for themselves? I bet you this crapalua (that’s “crap a looa”, dipshit) doesn’t sell too goddamn well in 3rd world countries. What do you think?

Is this what makes you ladies feel beautiful and talented? Do you not know that all women are beautiful? I know I have my proclivities, but I do love women, and as a connoisseur of the fairer gender I have to say that those who long to be like the dimbulbs in chick-lit novels can take my name out of their little black books. If you can’t hold a conversation with me after I bang your freckles off, I don’t really need you around.