Your lawyer said the judge’s sentence was just meant to scare you straight—with good behavior, there was no way you’d serve all ten years. But after nine years of pushing the book truck back and forth from the prison library, weeding the warden’s garden, and saying “No, thank you” to your cellmate’s repeated demands that you drink pruno with him, your parole hearings are still adjourned before you’ve even had a chance to raise your hand. Even the pinup girl on your calendar is giving you the side eye, looking at you like you’re just another chump who dropped out of school halfway through basic arithmetic. Which, to be fair, you are.
And the only thing worse than waiting to go home from the big house is waiting for Booklist‘s Mystery Month to finally start. Will it ever happen? Wait one more week, jailbird. In the meantime, here’s some reading material.
Rod Penn sat in his corner office on the seventieth floor of World Book Review Enterprises Tower, which looked out on a magnificent view of the New York City skyline, which today was as beautiful as it always was.
But Rod wasn’t looking at the view. He was looking at the stack of books on his desk.
He sighed. Books had been getting more and more similar. Ever since James Patterson had become the best-selling author in the history of the printed word, things had changed. More accurately, Patterson had changed them.
Books now had more em-dashes—and more exclamation marks! Shorter sentences. And shorter chapters, too.