Bookseller Chick made me snort-laugh with this entry about authors you know you should give up, but just can’t.
I have two:
- Stephen King – he started to suck the almighty hairy nut starting around Gerald’s Game, but I can’t stop buying his books. I don’t even read them. I just have them. Sometimes, I cave in and attempt to read one, like that time I tried to read Black House because I love The Talisman so damn much, but when I found out King and Straub had perverted it into yet another goddamn motherfucking Gunslinger-related book, the book dropped from my nerveless fingers and I had to break into my emergency stash of scientific non-fiction just to calm my nerves.
The books, they taunt me. I can hear them. And sometimes, I cry in the cold, unforgiving dark for the love that used to be.
- Robert Jordan – The less said about that habit, the better. No, really. I’ve stopped reading, but my heart stops and I pause dead in the bookstore every time I see a hardcover book with his name embossed on the dustjacket, and I pick it up, hope singing in my heart, and the refrain, it hums is this it, is this it, is this FINALLY it, will you finally find peace? only to find that no, the saga isn’t even close to coming to an end yet.
Deep in my heart, I know this to be true: they hurt me only because they love me. I can leave them any time. No, I swear it.