N.B.: If you haven't read The Appeal by John Grisham, and you plan on it, beware of spoilers ahead.
Have you ever read a book that made you mad? I'm not talking about non-fiction – not like a book about the Holocaust that makes you angry and sad all at the same time. I'm talking about fiction.
Have you ever read a fictitious novel about fictitious things and when you were done with that book, you wanted to punch the author in the back of the head?
John Grisham's a fairly transparent author. His good guys are good. His bad guys are bad. You can predict which way the ambivalent guys are going to go. This doesn't mean his books are poorly written, though. I thoroughly enjoy Grisham's novels. His books are fun to read because they explore legal issues, they build tension, the characters sound and feel real, and they usually examine some type of moral or ethical quandary.
But when I read this type of fiction, I'm not reading it to be depressed or to watch evil triumph. I want the bad guy to get some type of retribution. I want to live vicariously through the protagonists as they experience some type of success and vindication. It's cathartic and rewarding and it makes the hour or two spent reading his 400 page novel worthwhile.
After reading "The Appeal" (this applies to a lesser extent to "The Partner", as well), I didn't get that emotional release. I got a depressing look at corruption with absolutely zero consequences for the villainous Trudeau and no satisfaction for the Payton family. Everybody who was getting fucked throughout the book continued to get fucked. Everybody who profited from the fucking continued to profit from the fucking.
I understand that some novels aren't meant to be black and white, that they're not cheapened so that there is a happily ever after ending, that they reflect reality, not fiction. Those aren't novels for light reading. Those aren't John Grisham's disposable legal thrillers. If I wanted to read a book that had no point, I'd read non-fiction or something existentialist. I wanted to read a decent book that would keep my attention and then satisfy me with a resolution that felt like it meant something. Instead, I got fucked.
Fuck you, John Grisham. All that time I spent with your book I could have spent masturbating to donkey porn.
On a totally unrelated aside (idea stolen from Kapgar):
Go congratulate Sarcastica for winning Best Teen Blog at the 2008 Bloggies!
And in that vein, fuck Perez Hilton for stealing Best GLBT Blog from Puntabulous – Perez Hilton isn't a GLBT blog, it's a gossip blog!
And, while I'm at it, have I mentioned that I hate Dooce? Fuck her for winning anything – she is NOT a blog! Dooce.com is a series of articles about some of the most tedious subjects possible. A blog allows comments and recognizes its readers as part of an interactive environment. Fuck Dooce for winning "Best Designed". Her blog is black and white. Real fucking creative. And "Lifetime Achievement" and "Blog of the Year"? Fuck you! Dooce hasn't written a worthwhile post in at least three years. I hate her with a fiery passion. My first exclamation when I saw that was to shout, "I hope you get cancer!" (Yes, I know that's horrible and evil and dreadful and shameful. And I think she already had cancer of some sort.) Britt said that I wouldn't want that, because then she'd just get more sympathy and become even more popular. And she's right. So, instead, I just hope that she breaks her fingers and can't type for six months and all of her advertisers realize what a sham her non-blog blog is.
