Someone once told me that there is no greater thief than a bad movie. After careful contemplation, I developed my own contention concerning the matter. How very true that you pay to see a film and it winds up being immensely painful to the eye, or mentally offensive. However, I find that the true thief doesn’t peruse the rental shelves awaiting some poor unfortunate victim as much as his big brother. The greater thief would have to be a truly bad novel.
The bad novel does not even have to be poorly written. It might contain horribly irritating characters like a fly that you just can’t seem to swat. It could be a jumble of cliche ideas, or an ending that makes you say to yourself, that’s it?
After reading close to a thousand pages of a particular novel, the story took an extremely contrived twist by thrusting the entire planet into another galaxy and introducing aliens, not to mention that all of the characters… every single one… that I followed for eight hundred pages died. What the hell is that about? There is still two hundred or so pages left, and now I’m introduced to a slew of new characters that I’m not emotionally attached to. Taking this sort of action makes me feel robbed, and that the author clearly must have been smoking the reefer when he decided to write the ending of the book, which leaves more holes in the story than craters on the moon.
How do authors such as this one even get published? Do they hold a gun to their agent’s head? A movie is only typically two hours long, but a bad novel feels like it is around six months in length. Hate would be a weak word for me to describe the moment that I finished the novel.
Ah well, back to some Phillip K. Dick.
Have any of you ever been robbed by the greater thief?