I swear to God that I have a near overwhelming desire to change my screen name to "careerist reviewer" and post nothing but scathing reviews of crappy books using only quotes from the samples.
Like this one, written by the dear self-publisher who called someone the "c-word" over on that other site. I would take issue with his use of words, but, as his book makes clear, he can't fucking write anything worth reading anyway.
Anything in italics was taken directly from the book. As is.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is not suicide; this is a murder."
Or at least it would be, if I hadn't killed myself from the pain to which I was subjected by the mere act of reading this sample. Apparently the unnamed author plans to write my epitaph in my own blood, and count my every tear. Tears that were shed at the butchering of the English language that occurred in this sample.
"I woke up in the hospital the next day; fading in and out of consciences."
What? No, my conscience is not at all bothered by writing a truthful review of the awfulness that is this book.
Oh, wait, that was supposed to be consciousness. I was fading in and out of consciousness. Or at least sentience. From the terrible writing. It clocked me over the head with its awfulness.
"My mind went blank, and my finger clinched. My muscles tugged on the trigger as I left my body. The gun went off with a kick, flames shot out with the sound of boxed thunder. There he was, wearing a stunned expression and a hole in his forehead. Head trips ensued; grainy black and white scenes from so many years ago. Bodies drilled with bullets and left abandoned like rotten garbage."
Rotten garbage. Sort of like the author's writing. And it's clenched, not clinched. Also, what DOES boxed thunder sound like? A metaphor, in order to work, has to liken something to something else that makes sense to the reader.
"They would refer to me as "a rouge citizen" and the media would sensationalize me."
I give up. And it's "rogue." Not "rouge." Rouge is the pink stuff that colors the porcelain cheeks of Gracie Gold. Unless, of course, our hero is a figure skater. Or Miss Havisham. Am I alone in guessing that Miss Havisham over-rouges her cheeks?
I weep for the gatekeepers.