Thursday, May 7, 2009

Jane Frakking Austen.

My brilliant sister-in-law figured out a way for me to see the missing thought bubbles I was bitching about yesterday so I took her up on the offer and was able to see the comments this morning.

The "shit-ton" of comments were nothing. Absolutely nothing. But then, in chapter fourteen, he crossed a line.

He called my writing Jane Austen.

JANE FRAKKING AUSTEN.

Not cool.

I can take a lot of criticism. I have taken a lot of criticism. But that just seems like a really LOW blow. Jane Austen? I mean seriously, he couldn't come up with a writer I hate more (actually, is there a writer I hate more? There's something to think about.)? Did I do something so horrible to him (you know, besides constantly bitching about him in a blog that, as far as I know anyway, he doesn't read...) as to deserve a Jane Austen comparison?

C'mon! My writing is not Jane Austen. Take it from someone who has spent this month reading nothing but Jane Austen. Two hundred pages of talking about how many dinners and dances a woman and a man can share or should share before she can be reasonably assured of his good character? Seriously? You're going to compare my writing to that? To Jane Austen?

I say again: NOT COOL.

The next sound you'll hear is my head exploding.

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