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Kate Schmidt, your article strikes me as arrogant and cruel. Romance novels may not be your cup of tea, but they represent a genre with a legitimate audience and legitimate writers. To randomly skewer a few authors with your high-brow sword is petty. Did you mention your bias to the romance novelists when you accepted the freelance editing work? Madame, you're a jerk.
Dear Sir or Madam,
I didn't mean to be mean. I honestly appreciate very bad writing; as it turns out, I'm not alone. And, like I said, I could go on . . .
'Just in case when I go out after that son-of-a-bitch and he kills me and then comes after you.' The words hung like coffins over her head.
From Allegheny Caress, which appears to be extinct:
He could imagine her beautiful mouth uttering quick wits.
Oh, why wasn't Hambone here?
Webster was in the cellar suite having a heart-to-heart talk with his reluctant cohort in the conspiracy against the lovely wood sprite who had been plucked from her nest in the Allegheny Mountains.
'What are you thinking, Father?'
Startled, Philip Mayne turned back to his son. 'Thinking? . . . Nothing. While I was deep in thought, I cannot remember what I was thinking of.'
From Victoria's Embrace:
Victoria found herself admiring an intricate wreath hanging near the fireplace, which Betsy told her she had woven from her own hair during the long harsh winter.
That's right—a fireplace woven of human hair!!!
And I still could go on . . .