James Patterson must be stopped. Now he’s pretending to write books for children. ARGH! Make it stop! Think of the children! I have this apocalyptic vision of the entirety of English-language fiction being corrupted by Patterson’ Patented Writing Apparatus, and it makes me want to read the entirety of every freakin’ Norton Anthology just to clean my brain.
I find myself trying to draw a connection between this form of artistic production and the one I talked about a few posts ago (Rihanna’s “Man Down” as a mass-produced widget). It makes me cranky, so I’m going to stop now and go clean the house.