Friday, December 14, 2012

They are only words. Only words

Today is 14 December 2012.  Keep that in mind.

Today, 14 December 2012, "author" James M. Lowrance (aka jml63)  wrote this on the Amazon KDP forum, whining about negative reviews his book received on GoodReads.

Some members use the site [GoodReads] to perpetrate intimidation. They would claim this is done to keep authors writing better books but this actually causes authors to feel like they are dodging assassin bullets (no exaggeration). Some reviewers there are only interested in extremely well-written novels and are largely bored by works in the 'How To' or 'Need to Know' categories. Why do they review these type books anyway? Because they are seeking out “bad behaviors” in authors and many of them use THE SAME DISCLAIMER that they composed that actually states this.
Emphasis is mine.

As I wrote in my comment tonight attached to the review written by GoodReads member "Chris," I'm sure Mr. Lowrance will remove his pathetic whine once the obscene inappropriateness of it is brought to his attention.  No matter, folks; I've already screen capped it. 

I don't care who you are, authors.  I don't care if you're Melissa Douthit, Kiera Cass, Leslie Wooddavis, Leah Banicki, M.T. Dismuke, Judith McNaught, Delaney Rhodes, Vanessa Pryor, Jerri Hines, Esther Kaliski, Ruth Ann Burkybile,  James Lowrance, Joe Konrath, Jo Ludwig, whoever. 

Your book is not your baby.  It is not your child.  It is not alive.  It does not eat and sleep and breathe.  It does not laugh and cry and play and dance and go to school and wait for Christmas.   You may have worked very hard to write it, but you did not give birth to it.  And no matter how harsh the criticisms, no matter how nasty the reviews, no matter how vicious the reviewer, neither you nor your book will bleed as a result.

Tonight, 14 December 2012, there are as many as 20, and perhaps even more, families mourning the violent and senseless and irreversible deaths of their real flesh and blood children.  I hope none of you whining, wanking crybabies ever have to experience that.  I hope no one anywhere ever has to, even though I know that in our day and age, such a hope is in vain.

But to compare a negative review to an assassin's bullet is grotesque exaggeration -- yes, Lowrance, you pathetic twit, it most certainly is exaggeration, of the most insensitive and offensive kind.

I'm a writer.  I've been a writer longer than a lot of you have been alive.  I've suffered the bad reviews, the stupid critique partners, the d'uh moments when my own stupidity and errors have been pointed out to me.  I've been there, I've felt it, I've done it . . . and I haven't gone all wacko over it.  I don't blame the reviewer, I don't call her bully, I don't threaten to reveal where she works or where her kids go to school. 

Because it's a book.  It's a fucking book.  It's a made up once-upon-a-time story.  The people in it aren't real, their lives aren't real, none of it is real.  The bad guys die, sometimes horribly, but when you go back to page one to reread it -- or rewrite it -- the bad guys come back to life, and so do the good guys who died on page 175.  They're not real.  They don't bleed, they don't suffer, they don't really die. 

Bad reviews won't kill it, and they sure as hell won't kill you.  Grow the fuck up.

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