Blech. I quit you, Jimbo.
I’m done with this fucking series. I hurl it to the pile currently occupied by Laurell K. Hamilton’s odious Anita Blake wereporn. The Women’s Murder Club went from gritty thriller to CSI: Sex in the City. It stopped being about the murders and started being about this panel of View rejects and the occasional crime story spackled in between “mmhmms” and “girl you go!”s. Honestly, the four protagonists are a blonde reporter, a brunette homicide detective, a black coronor, and — added after the books stopped taking risks by offing members of the murder club — a district attorney that’s both asian and Italian.
The love angles are atrocious, the relationships are pitiful, and they’ve begun to make the murders look weak by comparison. It’s become stale and repetitive and WHY AM I WASTING YOUR TIME WITH THIS?
You all know better than this. I feel like Morgan Spurlock. You mean eating McDonalds for 30 Days can be bad for you? Who fucking knew? EVERYONE. Except stupid people. Who deserve to die.
Stop writing these fucking books, Jim. Stop with the Nicholas Sparks rip-offs, and the weird Christian sci-fi action stories for kids with the goddamn angels. STOP. Or we’ll send the baggin’ wagon around to Dean Koontz your ass back to one novel every couple of years. It worked for Stephen King. He’s apparently back on his game after the accident.
Rev the murdertank. We’ve got a novel to help.
My son reads the Maximum Ride books and loves them. I’m just happy my kids are readers and he is pretty diverse with his choices so I don’t really care. I was never that big a fan of Patterson in the first place but if you want real “kill yourself to take the pain away” shitty writing try Iris Johansen. Jesus, that is schlock.