I’ve been pondering, nay wrestling with myself over whether or not I “should” read E.L James’s Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy.
Maybe I shouldn’t on principle – by various accounts its provenance is close to plagirism, it’s poorly researched, less well written and even less well edited.
Maybe I should because of all of the above reasons to enable me to put on my serious face and pontificate about it in some way or add my review to the many others.
In the end it came down to this, I’m too lazy to read a book that I’ll not really care about.
I’ve read the reveiws and come to the conclusion that its probably no better or worse in style or content than the Jackie Collins novels that my friends and I read as teenagers, complete with corner’s of pages missing where they’d be turned down so many times to indicate the sex scenes. In the end the books popularity will wane, the writer will, I hope, invest her royalties wisely and live a long and happy life, and everyone will move on to a new book. I’m fairly sure the publisher nor the writer will miss my cut of the however much it is.
I was going to write more but the phone rang and I had a conversation with a friend about teenage depression and forgot how I was going to end the post. That’s life for you.