They're out there. You know it. Those authors. Their names usually in gold gothic or stencil font, leering at you from the racks in airport shops. Sometimes they'll escape this quarantine and manage to infect the world, people like Stephenie Meyer and E.L. James. And they should only be permitted to write obituaries at best. For me it's Dan Brown. He should only be permitted to write obituaries. I can imagine it would read something like this: The very old man died in the middle of the night. It was sad. Whose yours?
F.M Busby for the tragedy that was The Demu Trilogy. There's some other writer I remember from my childhood whose novel had to do with transuranic elements. It was just the worst. I can't remember the writer's name, but I can remember a snippet of narrative that sealed it for me. Someone thinks or says "Why did it have to be transuranics?!" in high grief and drama. I was like, oh no... no, no, no... that should be illegal.
Probably something like: Your father is dead ... he died sometime last night ... he died after choking on his ball gag ... he died with his mistress...
It would! But I wouldn't relegate him to writing only obituaries. And so he is gone, and there will always be an extra slice of cake, an extra spoonful of ice ceam at the dinner table.
Not authors that are crappy writers, but if Stephen Fry wrote my Obituary I'd be pretty happy. If Doctor Seuss was alive as well I wouldn't complain.
I would say people who have nothing better to do than to complain about authors they dislike should be the ones who only write obituaries... if not for the fact that the dead deserve better.
