I’m reading a dirty book and, no, it’s not Fifty Shades of…Anything. It’s worse. I picked it up last week at the dollar store. During check-out I hid it in the middle of a pile of cleaning supplies, but the cashier wasn’t fooled: she gave me side eye. Owning it makes me blush. I would never, ever be seen in public with it under my arm or nose. We’re friends, though, right? Right? Okay, good. I’m a bit shy about this sensitive subject, so I am going to divulge my secret in a photograph. Deep breath. Here it is:
I’ve always been disgusted by the practice of contemporary writers messing with dead authors’ works. No, I do not want your crappy, half-baked sequel. Hell, I don’t want an excellent sequel, either. Not even on the off-the-charts chance that you are a better writer. Create your own word-art, please. Unless, of course, you insert zombies or monsters into the text, thereby creating this silly mash-up. Then I’m in, hard. Just don’t ask me to own up to it in real life. That would be absurd.
*Jane Austen’s bio on the back cover reads: “Jane Austen is coauthor of the New York Times best seller Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, which has been translated into 17 languages and optioned to become a major motion picture.”