Prologue
Online Newspaper: Bluffington Gazette
BABU'S BOOK TALK
March 13, 2013
Title: Quincy’s Soul
Genre: Crime/Suspense
Author: L. Blackburn
Publisher: Self-Published
Status: Book 1 in the “Soul Searching Series”
Babu’s Grade: DNF
The Gospel According to Babu:
For those of you who follow my weekly column, and at last count my editor said it was somewhere just shy of four hundred thousand, you know that I am brutally honest, in particular, where self-published (or as they prefer to be called “Indie”) authors are concerned.
Let me digress for a moment to educate those not familiar with the “Indie-Author” label. It means independent as in independent of a publisher. And there’s a reason for that. If their manuscripts had potential, then they would’ve been picked up by a legitimate publisher, right?
Of course I’m right. Babu is always right!
Now that’s not to say that many good works of fiction have not been born of an Indie Author, but as my most ardent followers will attest, that is simply a fluke.
An accident of nature.
Now, back to “Quincy’s Soul.” The fact that I couldn’t bring myself to finish this—and I use this word loosely—work of fiction was no accident. Let me put this into perspective so that anyone considering one-clicking this bitch might give it a second thought.
Given the choice between having a root canal with no anesthesia and finishing Quincy’s Soul?
I choose the root canal.
Given the choice between burning my corneas and finishing Quincy’s Soul?
Bye-bye corneas.
Given the choice between having my dick sucked by a cannibal chick wearing braces?
Well, I think you get the picture by now and it certainly isn’t a pretty one, is it?
Now on to the specifics of this book.
L. Blackburn’s synopsis of Quincy’s Soul held some minimal intrigue with the promise of hard core criminals who take the hero hostage and for weeks, torture and play mind-fuck games with him in order to break him to get some secret code that holds the key to our national security.
The promise of torture is real; unfortunately, it’s the reader who is tortured.
And the mind-fuck?
You guessed it. L. Blackburn’s overdone plot will definitely fuck with your mind. It’s white bread trite and sophomoric in places. And that brings me to my next point.
“What does the “L” in L. Blackburn stand for? I’m hoping like hell it stands for “Latisha” or “Lydia.” While this book tried (and failed miserably) to have a fast-paced, testosterone-induced rush of action to put the readers on the edge of their seats, the whole time I was reading the first twelve chapters, that old song played in my head.
What song you ask?
That old Aerosmith tune kept playing over and over again in my head, “Dude Looks Like a Lady.” Only exchange “Looks” with “Writes,” and there you have it.
So, L. Blackburn, if you are a lady, then please, for the sake of not alienating the handful of readers you may have garnered, stick to writing what you know. How about cute little chick-lit stories—first deflowerings or romantic triangles? I daresay even tales of yeast infections or ingrown pubic hairs would be less painful than the drivel you attempted in Quincy’s Soul.
And if you are a dude, L. Blackburn?
Well, then my best advice to you is come out of the closet; stop hiding behind your lacey doilies and be the woman your writing says you can be!
Put on your big girl stilettos and see what happens!
That’s it for this week’s review! As always, you are free to voice your comments, criticisms and opinions right here, and don’t forget to visit my Greatreads page if you’re a member of my following and we can always chat there. I welcome your feedback and opinions, but remember, I reserve the right to tell you if you’re full of shit or to fuck off, and if necessary, block your ass, but that’s the beauty of Babu’s Book Talk!
Speak Your Mind
I have a few minutes until the flood of “beeps” will start hitting, signaling me that my followers are loyally sending me condolences and best wishes for a better next read. I won’t lie, the stroking feels fabulous.
I get up and grab a beer from the fridge and a bag of pretzels to enjoy when the first responders start weighing in on my column.
Beep!
Let the stroking begin.
Hitting a key on my laptop, my column comes up. I scroll down to the comment responses as a cluster of more ‘beeps’ sound one right after another.
Hot damn!
Krissie wrote: Gosh, I’m sorry you couldn’t finish it, but still I appreciate that you shared your honest review with us!
Babu wrote: Aww thanks, hun. **hugs**
Lil Likes Books wrote: Condolences you had to suffer through this. Sending hugs.
Babu wrote: Thanks Lil. In everyone’s life, a little rain must fall.
Book Bitch wrote: Well that sucks! Guess I should pass on this one. Thanks for saving me from it! **kisses**
Babu wrote: That’s why I’m here, BB. To save all of you the unnecessary pain and distress. Muah!
Loves Lizzies wrote: How miserable for you, love. I will send positive vibes that your next book will be enjoyable!
Babu wrote: Thanks, Lizzie! I’m trying to let the alcohol wash away the bad taste I was left with on this one!
Cindy Lou wrote: Well, I guess all we can do is thank you for your honest and objective review. You take a lot of pain for the sake of your followers, so just need to say that we appreciate your saving US from the PAIN. You are a valuable asset to the literary world. Don’t ever leave us!
Babu wrote: That’s why I’m paid the big bucks, Cindy Lou!
Lefty wrote: You know your review tickled my funny bone big time! I love your way with words! I did have this on my TBR list, but I’m dumping it. Thanks for making my reading decisions–-squeeeee!
Babu wrote: Nothing says ‘thank you’ quite like $$$
Ruby Red wrote: Okay, well here’s the thing, you didn’t finish the book so why would you leave a review? How can you leave a review for a book if you didn’t finish it? That kind of blows my mind. Now, I finished this book and disagree about the plot being overdone. Maybe if you had just hung in there, you would have seen what a compelling story it turned out to be. It’s such a shame when critics don’t understand a book and why things happen in it because they didn’t take the time to read it through the ending. But it’s your loss I guess.
Fuck! Looks like I have a dissenter in the ranks. Get ready to blow this bitch into oblivion.
Foot soldiers—man your stations!
Babu wrote: Are you kidding me??
Lefty wrote: Ruby Red it sounds like you’re questioning Babu’s intelligence and disputing his opinion?? How fucking dare you! Without Babu, we wouldn’t know what the hell to read! Why don’t you take your sorry, trolling ass and crawl on back to the bridge you live under!
LeLeaveMe-Aloney wrote: Babu, please ignore the likes of Ruby Red. She obviously doesn’t understand the magnitude of service you provide to all of us. How in the hell would we know what to read and what not to read if not for you? The fact that you have over 400,000 followers speaks volumes about the value of your opinion—of our opinions when it’s all said and done! Keep on keepin on, dude!
Cindy Lou wrote: Block Ruby Red, Babu! You don’t need trolls like that coming onto this site and voicing their opinion of your review! It’s blasphemy pure and simple!
And that ladies and gentlemen is how it is done.
CHAPTER 1
L. Blackburn
Babu? What the fuck kind of name is that? It’s like a bad porn name he chose after watching Aladdin one too many times. “Abu and Babu sitting in a tree…” There is a plethora of smart-ass responses I want to throw at him for that less than stellar…No. Scratch that, it’s pathetic.
The sorry excuse for a review posted this morning on the web’s biggest book critique site just obliterated my latest novel. I poured my blood into that manuscript, searching my inner tortured soul to describe the scenes of the captives begging for their lives. It was all supposed to be a metaphor depicting the lives of Indie authors who live at the mercy of their characters and overbearing imaginations.
Motherfucker.
Now, the four hundred thousand plus members of Babu the-monkey-fucker’s column will be shelving my greatest novel, all because the man seemingly does not get laid on a regular basis.
Or maybe at all.
I try to picture the guy in my mind, giving him scraggly grey hair, round glasses adorning beady brown eyes and thin lips turned down into a grimace.
The Scrooge of the Indie World.
The Charlie of the Literary Factory.
The Pain in my Fucking Ass and not in a good way.
Staring at my computer, I am about two mouse clicks away from giving him a piece of my mind when I’m saved by the bell. My cell is ringing atop my kitchen counter, buzzing away and doing its own little dance informing me that someone is trying to reach me. I should answer. I really should face my agent, whose name is flashing on the screen. There is no need for this conversation, because I already know what he’s going to say: ‘Ignore him, Larson. He’s an asshole, man. Quincy’s Soul is a fucking masterpiece.’
Luckily, my agent Brent is a die-hard fan so he easily strokes my ego the way the blonde-guy from last night stroked my dick for hours. Sighing, I pick up the cell just before it goes to voicemail answering in my typical one word greeting, “Blackburn.”
“Larson. Shit, man, did you see the review?”
Little naive Brent. Did he actually think it wouldn’t be my first destination before even pouring myself a cup of coffee? What the fuck planet has he been living on?
“The hell do you think, B.? Of course I saw it, and I’m telling you right now…”
I’m ready to go off on my only friend if it ensures that I keep my sanity in check.
“Do. Not. Respond. Larson, I swear to fucking God, if you leave a comment, your career is over. Done. Don’t be stupid, man. For once in your life just listen to me and not your hot-tempered need to confront every asshole who thinks he’s the best thing since Hemingway went to rehab.”
Jesus, someone needs to remind Brent that Hemingway wrote shit when he was sober so his little rant means nothing. Plus, I’m pretty sure that genius never went to rehab.
“Brent, he called me a pussy. No, worse, he called me a fucking woman! We’ll see if he’s so cocky when I stick all nine inches of my dick down his throat and pump my load all over his face.”
Crude? Yeah, a little bit.
Yet, interestingly enough, my words are closer to a children’s tale than his pretentious reviews. It’s not even fit to be used as toilet paper. Too harsh for my pretty ass.
“Who cares, man? And please, I’m begging you, do not throw visuals of your cock in some dude’s mouth at me. It makes me …uncomfortable.”
Now, Brent is just trying to make me laugh…poor sap.
“Shut the fuck up, B. You love my visuals, said so on my manuscript.”
I hear him chuckle, which calms my nerves for an iota of a moment, but his next words bring my focus back to the review. “Look, all I’m saying is that he didn’t even finish the book. Readers will take into consideration that it wasn’t read from cover to cover. Plus, your fans love you. Don’t let him get to you. Ignore him and this will blow over by tomorrow.”
He’s right. Of course, he’s right and I should undoubtedly take his advice, close the tab on Babu’s Book Talk and start writing the follow-up to Quincy’s Soul…Harsh Reality. I know all of this, I really do. But fuck it, I just can’t. It’s one thing to attack my work, my genius, some have called it. But my personal life? Oh hell, no. That will not fly with me.
“I gotta go.”
I hear Brent yelling at me, begging me not to respond but it all goes silent as I press the red button to end the call.
Alright, Babu. Game on.
L. Blackburn wrote: Thank you, Babu, for that life-altering review of my work. No, I do not use the word lightly because, unlike you, I actually “worked” to finish my novel. Your review, however, is subpar seeing as you could not even be bothered to read the entire book. Since I’m a generous guy, I have decided to answer all of your inquiries about my gender, my shoes and…was that my dick size you were interested in knowing? Well, just in case, it is eight inches at rest and ten while getting sucked. For convenience sake, I usually tell people the average of nine. Happy? Oh, right…my shoes. I don’t wear stilettos but if you’re into that kind of cross-dressing I do know a good place you can go that’s very discreet (I’ll send you a private email if you’re afraid of getting caught wearing a lace thong). As far as my name is concerned? Fuck you. You don’t deserve to have it unless you’re curious about how it would sound pouring from your lips just before you come all over yourself. Get a real job.
Sincerely,
L. Blackburn
I read my trash answer twice before I press the send button and basically say farewell to my career. Funny, there is that Hemingway reference again except I’m sober and suicidal, apparently.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
