Maybe I’m enjoying the meat of low hanging fruit here. But this Nicholas Sparks guy—the “auteur” who brought us such thought provoking hits as “Nights in Rodanthe”, “The Notebook”, and “Message in a Bottle” has a recent piece in USA today where he a) compares himself to Sophocles, Shakespeare, and Hemingway b) slams Cormac McCarthy’s “Blood Meridian” as “pulpy" and "overwrought” c) did I mention he compares himself to Sophocles, Shakespeare, and Hemingway?
Then the twat has the gall to say this about himself: “There are no authors in my genre. No one is doing what I do.”
I’m not making this up. He’s absolutely, fantastically this ridiculous. And if you hate yourself/ want to watch your heart rate hit mach speeds, you can read the whole insipid article here.
By the way, maybe a few of you want to give him the benefit of the doubt… maybe Sparks is joking, right? Is that what you’re hoping for? Nah, here’s what he says while holding a Hemingway novel and musing about the merits of HIS OWN WORK: “A Farewell to Arms… Good stuff. That's what I write.”
Not to sound too Dr. Seuss, but I want to fight him; I want to bite him. I’ll throw a haymaker at his nose, then kick his kidneys as he moans. I will box his ears so hard, they’ll ring for weeks with disregard. I can kick his ass all day; all in the name of Hemingway. Let’s tussle soon, you and me; before you write another thing.
Someone has to sock Sophocles Sparks in the chops, and it just so happens I’ve got bail money set aside...
[This post originally appeared at the Some Things That Meant the World to Me blog, that of Joshua Mohr.]