by ryan ritchie
thereâ€™s nothing wrong
with the anne rices of the world.
or the stephen kings,
dan browns and
but anyone who prefers books from the
knows thereâ€™s a vibe â€“
a certain infectious communicable virus â€“
attached to these writers that screams
these authors own mansions all over the world.
they donâ€™t have to give readings to peddle three books
and if they do they charge forty bucks a head and sell out
three-thousand seat venues.
these writers might sell lots of books,
but these writers also completely dominate
the tiny, dusty, unbrowsed fiction section
at every thrift store in america.
as a thirty-year-old bum with less than three thousand dollars
in my bank account writing
a novel still in the draft phase,
I get an unreasonably large amount of
pleasure out of that.