My Horrible New York Times Review
An author reflects on being trashed by the New York Times books section.
If only that had been as mercifully succinct as the one Spinal Tap got for its album release in 1980. A terse “Shit sandwich.”
[…]
My novel is, in fact, one of the worst books some people have ever read. An insipid waste of paper. Readers writhed in agony at florid prose, gnashed teeth at familiar characters, fumed at confusing shifts of time and place, and grimaced at the triteness of it all. There are unsubstantiated reports of eyes bleeding.
My novel is, in fact, one of the most amazing books some people have ever read. A soulful work of beauty. Readers found peace while grieving lost friends and family, bonded more deeply with people they care about, and enjoyed the story long past their bedtimes because they couldn’t put it down. This book changed lives.
So, be like Puffy: “Can’t stop, won’t stop, eh eh, eh eh.”
I’m doing my rain dance to summon the story, but so far all I’m getting are scattered showers. Oh well, back to the dance, eh eh, eh eh.
