(Warning to my readers: this note might get ugly.)
Dear Mr. Ego,
I can’t tell you how unequivocally thrilled I am that you don’t call your books “romance”. Frankly, I’m almost offended that you call them fiction because that puts them a little too close to what I write. Oh but wait. I write “love stories”—you know…those things you claim to write. You do not. You show us all your butterfly exhibit then rip off the wings.
Is there a point? Is there some sad reason you feel you need to inject the world with such sorrow? Does it make you happy somehow? What a tragedy. But you like that so I guess that’s cool.
And can I say, how kind you are to do Hollywood a favor and write both screenplays and novels. Oh my gosh! How benevolent of you! I’m guessing money has nothing to do with it. At all. I’m so thrilled as well that you’ve helped me to save boatloads of money on movies, theatre snacks, and DVDs.
I’m not even going to address your audacity at comparing yourself to the Greek greats, Jane Austen and Hemingway. The ego speaks for itself. So does your claim that no one else can do what you do. Perhaps—oh I'm going out on a limb—no one else wants to. Hmm...
And perhaps, Mr. Sparks—oops, did I use your name? My bad—you should consider changing up your formula before someone figures out you’re just writing the same book over and over. Seriously, the tragedies that keep showing up at the endings are a dead giveaway.
And before you start disparaging romances again, you might want to consider that we have over 50% of the market share and that’s helping you. I’m sure you don’t mind. So don’t kick that sand at us too hard. We might throw a little back.