Dear Book Two:

Uhhhhh, hello? What is this garbage? Back before the launch of your predecessor, I was given to understand that you were “mostly done”? Didn’t you tell me that? Didn’t you say, and I quote, “hey lookey-loo, I’m nearly Book 2?” Probably, I didn’t IMAGINE you saying that.

Ugh. *flips pages* Disgusting. I can’t even call you a booklet, never mind a book. I’d be remiss in pimping you out as a draft, ffs. You’re a bloated outline, is what you are. Yes you are. What have you been doing while I was sweating my ass off (read: sitting in front of my computer, looking at porn inspirational photography)? Eating adverbs, apparently. With a side order of superfluous adjectives, judging by your midsection. I know, words are like Pokemon, candy and men: you just want them all. But have you NO self-control, Book 2? I mean, really. You start out ok–the Fur Con, the missing persons, the creepy dude–but then you veer off into self-indulgent babble for six chapters. SIX CHAPTERS!  Then for some unknown reason, you bounce back to wonderful, and for one sweet moment, with the zombies and the propane explosion and the goofiness, I have faith. But then … more babble. How you do exhaust me with the babble.

Now I have to slam on the hip waders and shovel through all your nonsense for gems and clues and red herrings. Thanks. Like I have SO MUCH time on my hands to fiddle with your middle. Besides the latex gloves and face mask, do I LOOK like a gastroenterologist? DO I?

OH OH and don’t even get me started on your so-called ending. Honey, if JLo has junk in her trunk, you’ve got a trash heap in your fuckin’ caboose. Perhaps most importantly: I don’t even know if there’s a sex scene in this book! If there is, who/what/where/when/how and why? I see notes about stuff … an odd italicized section here called “hot spot” … is this supposed to be a sex scene? I don’t remember writing this. Furthermore, it’s not hot. If you can’t see how bad this is, you need baddie lessons.

I’m afraid this calls for drastic measures. Just because we’ve always done it this way, doesn’t mean it’s not stupid. No. No, we’re not spending some time apart. I’ve already given you too much dicking-around time. Monday morning, 10 am: you, me, the shredder.

Sincerely,

your author (though at this point I am ashamed to admit that).

ps. You make me want to play Warcraft.  

(Editor’s note: Having spent all summer on a break and several months on self-promotion, it’s clear that AJ Aalto has lost her flippin’ mind. Since she’s not entirely sure how to get a replacement without another stint in prison for graverobbing, please expect this hogwash to continue …)