Right up front: I haven’t read “The Quickie,” the latest book with James Patterson’s name on it. The title seems apt enough, but I was wondering: Why use it now, instead of a dozen books ago? Patterson’s hirelings have been turning out volumes of this description for at least a decade. Next up: “The Phoning It In.”
Of course I’m not suggesting that such a book atop New York Times bestseller list represents the death of American culture – let’s not forget “The Love Machine” in 1969, or “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” in 1972, or “Oliver’s Story” in 1977 – but it’s not something that gives me great comfort either. Shouldn’t writers, even very wealthy ones, be required to actually write the books they’re selling? Paying someone else to do it is like paying a pauper to do your military service in the Civil War.
Rant off. Yes, I call myself a writer and no, I can’t afford to hire someone to do it for me. Pass those sour grapes over here, please.