The Love of Mother Tongue

I just read an excerpt from a novel forthcoming this October 27th.

It's to be a peculiar book in some ways; twelfth in a sequence of books of an estimated fourteen (three more books!*). The project is interesting in that it generated a substantial following within a certain genre, so much so that a hack's been brought in to finish the series after the untimely death of the author.

And I loathe the hack's use of language as much as I enjoyed the books before. He inverts subject verb order, so that I hear Yoda at inappropriate moments. His metaphors are strained, his characterization daft; the only thing he has going for him is that he can crank things out on schedule.

On a grave personal note, I've nearly run out of new or rereadable fiction in the house. Matters have come to such a sorry pass that I'm tempted to write fiction. The only thing I can see in the way of me losing all sense and decency via the naked page is if someone lends me lots of good books.**

*Something of an in joke. The original author it seems has claimed that he'd need only three more books to finish the series for the last ten books.

**Due to unavoidable delays in the arrival of my stipend, the local libraries are out of the question.