STATEMENT FROM THE AUTHOR’S LEGAL:
Good afternoon. I am the author’s legal representative, Jonathan Snidewhite. Due to an ongoing criminal case involving the author and bestselling crime writer Ian Rankin, Mr. Nicholls is unable to scribble on public forums, so I will be making random keyboard strokes on his behalf. First, a few words on the novel. This is a book about writers, a whole houseful of them, and the innumerable ways in which they irritate the author: their vanities, their rivalries, their eccentricities, their hideous deformed faces. Effectively, this novel is a concentrated act of violent hatred against all writers, especially ones the author knows. Set in 2050, when the book has ceased to matter, the few remaining writers are forced to scramble a living in a ramshackle towerblock, churning out hackwork tailored to the whims of a handful of wealthy readers. The novel is an overly despairing and miserably bleak depiction of a future that will probably, definitely, happen. The book also viciously insults bestselling crime writer Ian Rankin, which as the author’s legal representative, I seriously condemn, however, if you would like to read that section, please turn to p.107, because he really sticks it to that overly famous man, and that earnest hack Jodi Picoult too, which I find absolutely appalling. Here is more information about the book, which can be ordered here.
“Hey, man! Thanks for transferring the £50. You want me to ramble on about your novel’s kickassitude? Sure. It’s sitting on the bookcase, man. I have priorities, like Franzen’s and DeLillo’s latest. I like you, man, but I ain’t bumping those two LEGENDS for your little scribbling. Anyway, use this: MJ ROCKS AND THIS IS MUCH BETTER THAN THAT JUVENILE EFFORT WITH BELCH IN THE TITLE. PEACE.” — @davey46
“Mr. Nicholls, I have read this latest novel submission with interest. Thank you for sending the other manuscripts, Publish This You Cretins, Your Publishing Firm is a Tide of Effluent, Everything You Publish I Ignore on Principal. I will assign those to our intern readers. I would like to make a personal comment: why the bitterness? This novel is simply a brutal outpouring of personal grievances, score-settling resentments, and misanthropic moans about the world’s refusal to crown you a genius. I am afraid we cannot publish this.” — A Man at Penguin Books
“Dear Mark, I have had a look at some of your book now. I’m afraid that it isn’t my thing. Good luck with it. […] Just to send you a few more words … there were some things I liked in your MS, it’s just that a blurb needs to be a real affirmation and I feel uneasy offering that here I’m afraid. Please don’t be too disheartened and make sure you keep writing.” — Alex Kovacs
“Mark. I’m sorry, but I had to skip that nine-page list. It went on far too long. Why didn’t you make it easier for the reader? I’m sorry, but I couldn’t really understand what the book was about. Your father is reading the Jack Reecher novels, why don’t you write something like that?” — Mrs Nicholls
“This is a pleasant, amusing, moving, and engaging novel written by a talented person.” — CheapBlurbs4U
“A ho-hum gallimaufry of stop-start narratives, banal tangents, and boorish satirical pokes.” — Harold Sorrentino
“The nadir of attempted comedy.” — Lydia Theroux
““This novel is a crisp, buttery concoction that tantalises the mind . . . a soft and mouthwatering crunch of pleasure tingling on the cortices and yumming up the imagination.” — Gregg’s Bakers
“Labyrinthine satiric masterpiece . . . destined for a place in the pantheon of eternal pleasures” — M.J. Nicholls
I am the author of this novel and I have lied to you, and taken unhealthy pleasure in lying to you, and I will continue to lie to you until you beg for more. I have lied about everything in my real life (which does not exist—even as the “author” I am a construct invented to represent aspects of the “real” author—however, let’s not tangle ourselves in semantic or metaphysical notions. I have lied my way through life, relishing in the saltiest untruths. When people have asked me, “Is that soup made of string?”, I have replied, “No. That soup is made of soup.” I have told many dirty, unfair lies, and I have delighted in every one. The truth is a pointless concept, invented by non-writers to keep the masses logical and docile, to eliminate the pleasures of fiction-making. Punch the truth hard.