My experiment with comparative prose yesterday caused me to take another look into This Year's Popular Melodrama Of Illiterate Titillation.
It's really hard to describe how bad it is. Everything you've ever heard said
about terrible writing is there: lifeless prose, clunky dialogue,
soap-opera emotions, tired descriptive cliches. The sex and even the musing on relationships are just weirdly
written, like someone's unfamiliar imagination of what these things must be like. Everything that's supposed to be edgy just comes off as
uncomfortably clinical.
It's been said that most sex acts in fiction are cartoon fantasies bearing little relation to the real thing. With 50 Shades, this extends to depictions of flirting, studying, and talking to yourself.
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