Saturday, April 7, 2012
The author is an ugly, weasely little man, whose hair in pictures often looks unctuous.
She knows this, but when she’s reading his work, she forgets. Only someone worthy of her lust could compose such paragraphs, filled as they were with universal insights and illuminations. And she was not alone in her feelings. He had a whole army of fan girls who normally would not look twice at him on the streets, would probably fart in his presence, knowing full well he would be able to connect it back to them as the source. And he had more than an army of these women, he had a battalion.
She wondered, did the same principle hold true for say, Ann Rule? Yes, the scope of what the two writers composed was entirely different, but there were fervent true crime fans. And what genre would her weasel- cum- lothario’s composition’s fall under anyway? Wow-moment memoir?
But. But. And there was a but. He was fucking up, and she knew if she talked to other women in his wow-moment battalion some of them would say the same thing, would still be true-seeing enough to have noticed. He needed to lay off the daily emails. They were so detailed, so everyday nuanced, that they could see him growing in his conceit. His transformative power had gone to his head. He was believing his own hype. He was ugly, they made him beautiful and he was making himself ugly again.
If she could give him one bit of advice, it would be lay off the daily emails. She’d add, groom your mystique. Finally, if she still had his attention, she’d say wash your hair.