It's all over the Internet now. The man running for the US Senate from Virginia is a novelist. Yes, a published one, with such imprints as Bantam Books, William Morrow and Avon. A legitimate, honest to God published author who no doubt has a literary agent to represent him. An agent, for the love of Christ, someone who read his manuscript and thought it was brilliant.
I'm not here to debate the tawdry topics, the rather blunt sexual references and the very nasty attitude that a male character displays towards the females in the novel. No, I'm only saying what every other unpublished writer is saying.
How the hell did this shite ever make it past the slush pile? Sweet God in Heaven, this garbage gets printed and I can't get an agent? Here's a sample: "Quick, grinding voices, turgid with repressed passion." This is what the publishing houses want? Jesus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph.
But wait, there's more: "His muscles were young and hard, but his face was devastated by wrinkles." Devastated by fecking wrinkles? Devastated?
That is what passes for good writing these days? And it's come from the imagination, and the pen, of a man who wants to be a United States Senator. God help us all.
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