I posted this on Twitter the other day:
That was in response to this:
Another vapid volume done in a rush, taking advantage of the erotica market spurred by the unfathomable success of Fifty Shades of Grey. I was ticked. This was essentially fan fiction. Nothing against fan fiction (see my previous post), but you shouldn’t be paid for something as uncreative as this.
When I told Erin the news, she was also embittered. Jane Eyre was one of her favourite novels. She hated to see it desecrated in this way.
But our topic of conversation slipped a bit. As these things do.
“I know it’s blasphemy,” she said, “But I never really got into Jane Austin. I always wanted to shout, ‘if you would just move on with your lives, you could end this book in two pages!’”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I mean, Elizabeth is all like, ‘oh! I’m confined by social expectations!’ Well, whose fault is that?”
“Yeah,” I said again. “Elizabeth Bennett should have just taken her top off and gone to Scotland.”
“Right!” she said.
There was a pause.
“On second thought: Spain,” I amended. “Scotland’s too cold.”