I am highly disillusioned today, and it’s not only because Phoenix has 31% humidity. Nay, I am disillusioned because the over-baked Jersey Shore dumb-ass we call “Snooki” has now signed her second book deal, and I can’t stop dry-heaving.
I’m sorry; do I sound angry? Well, that’s because I AM ANGRY. I’m like the hulk over here in West Valley, looking for something to smash.
Allow me to present an excerpt from Snooki’s first book, A Shore Thing: “Gia danced around a little, shaking her peaches for show. She shook it hard. Too hard. In the middle of a shimmy, her stomach cramped. A fart slipped out. A loud one. And stinky.”
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG HULK SMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, now that I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m free to comment: This trash is a New York Times best-seller? And they want this girl to write another book? They will pay her to write ANOTHER BOOK?
Folks, for your consideration, I ask: Why am I writing a novel? Why am I stressing over it? Why am I bleeding words onto the page in hopes of getting published someday, when celebrities like Snooki are the ones getting the book deals? Celebrities who are celebrities because … why? Why is Snooki famous? Why are any of the drunken, self-centered kids on The Jersey Shore famous? What the hell is wrong with our country?!
There is already buzz that the dreaded Casey Anthony will soon sign a book deal. Ice-T and his wife, Coco, both have debut novels on the shelves. These books will undoubtedly sell millions (well, maybe not Coco’s). However, good authors—deserving authors—will never be heard of, even if their books are published.
I haven’t worked on my novel in two weeks, and I feel panicked whenever I wake up and realize it’s slipping away. That said, I’m tired of fighting the criticism of my well-meaning editors. I’m tired of thinking about my plotline all the time and wondering why I’m bored. I’m tired of being strong and carrying on.
Partly it’s because I review books for a living. I receive bags and bags of books every month (which feels like Christmas morning to me). However, because of this, I see all the books that will never be reviewed—never sold to anyone other than the author’s family and friends. I can read most books within the span of about three days. I throw each completed novel back on the pile, write my review, and barely consider that someone like me spent years toiling over his or her computer to write a story. I’ve become jaded—the worst thing that could happen to an idealistic artist personality.
More so, though, I haven’t worked on my novel because America no longer cares about good literature. There are a handful of us who stand up for books, no matter what. We remember the stories of Nazi Germany and how kids burned books, and we shudder, because America doesn’t feel far behind. No one cares about books anymore—at least, not the books that matter. We read books written by famous idiots; we read magazines with headlines like, “Name the celebrity cellulite.” We watch freakin’ TMZ every … night … of …. the … week and get dumber and dumber and dumber.
If I do ever finish my novel (and no matter how frustrated I get, I admit it’s good), will anyone care? It may be a couple years from now before it actually hits bookshelves. By then, will works by Zafon, King, and my beloved Ransom Riggs be replaced by Snooki, The Situation, and … oh, I don’t know any other Jersey Shore character. If so, there is no hope for me, because my book is too heavy and complicated to be read by drooling fools.
I’m angry today. I’m disillusioned. I’m too young to be jaded, damn it. But Snooki ruined my morning. Don’t let her ruin yours. Turn off the TV. Go to the library. Get a GOOD BOOK. And read. Read all day. Remember what it’s like to have a story pick you up and carry you away. If it has to be Harry Potter, then read Harry Potter. Just stop reading the crap they’re selling on Entertainment Tonight. Before it’s too late and our country becomes the next Sodom or Gomorrah.