First of all, a quick Google search tells me the writer goes by the pen name E.L. James, which in itself is just outrageous. Unless your initials are J.K. and your last name is Rowling or if they spell something funny no one is allowed to go by them. It's not mysterious so cut it out.
But this is not my main qualm. I wasted seven whole minutes of my life reading 11 pages of this nonsense before I figured out a) the entire plot and b) that I could just as easily read the same quality of writing on some teen girl fan fiction website, which I never have, never do, or never will. Then I burned the book and have been pondering ever since how she wrote TWO MORE BOOKS after that and people still read them. What's more, this lady is REAPING the benefits of less-than-mediocre writing just because hormonal biddies all over the country are getting hot and bothered over some inexplicably rich creep who preys on an awkward college girl who apparently never got invited to play Seven Minutes in Heaven in middle school. Take note people, according to the July Cosmo issue reading erotic words is to women as watching porn is to men, so I guess that's the way to go if you're looking to make it big in the book-writing world.
No, I haven't read the whole thing, nay, even a quarter of it, but that doesn't stop me for judging those who do. If I see you reading this book I will slap it up out of your hands and into your face because that's what you deserve for supporting this literary and cultural decline. Not only does it reinforce the idea that women are submissive, IT SUCKS and I could write a better book if I threw a box of word magnets at my refrigerator and wrote them down. So for your own sake, either put it away, get a Kindle so I can't tell what you're reading, or for Christ's sake get a boyfriend.
|For the record, "New York Times Bestseller" does not make a book worth reading.|