My poor, gooey, little alfajores! Have you missed me? I know I’m a week late, but too bad, I’m busy being a big-city career girl and sometimes the blog falls low on the to-do list (right under “solve the Fermi paradox, actually).
So I had a review planned out but then…. something weird happened. Before I go on, I warn you, the next few sentences will contain a few choice Anglo-Saxon curses, so if that offends you, jog on, mate.
I will spare you the details, but the broad strokes are as follows: this past weekend, I had a surprisingly nasty interaction on Twitter with the author of the book I planned to talk about today. The author, who is the author of a recent trilogy of popular ‘grimdark’ fantasy novels, took offense at my supposed misunderstanding of one of his tweets (and fuck him, I wasn’t wrong, the prick was ragging on libraries and no one hates on the library when I’m here because THE LIBRARY IS MY HOUSE and I will cut you if you try to come in and trash my house) –
– and then the churlish tit thought it was a good idea to call me some names and act like a pissy little eighth-grade girl because apparently, this author is a cunty fuckboy. The fuck, right?
You’re probably thinking, Robyn, you ignorant slut, Twitter is basically just a bunch of moronic shit-smeared toads vomiting filth over everyone all the time. True enough. But I suppose there is still some stubborn, miraculous little weed of innocence clinging to the stony soil of my cyncical heart, because I just didn’t expect one of those moronic shit-smeared toads to be an author. Stupid, I know, but… but come on! We’re book people! Book people are good people! Or they’re SUPPOSED to be good people, anyway. COME ON.
And so today, I am wiser, sadder book person.
The ironic thing is that I actually quite liked the motherfucker’s book. So… ¯_(ツ)_/¯
But actions have reactions and if you’re a hostile cocksucker of an author, there are consequences to stirring up some shit with a mean, angry book blogger with a long memory and a capactity for vengeance that would impress Edmund Dantes. Condequences that include but are not limited to not reviewing your half-good book or its sequels, telling everyone you know about the Twitter belligerence, and spreading the word that your book sucks and also you have a micro-penis. Yeah, it’s on, author-douche. And I can wage this long, slow war forever, because I’m a little like a certain Dr. Banner, the mother-flippin’ incredible Hulk…
And that is why today there is no book review today, my piping hot, sugar-dipped churros. I promise I’ll get back to yelling at you about books soon. I just have to get a little less angry…