Emily Reed is back. The ever-young Lady of Letters sent me this the same afternoon I requested it. As the football season winds back in, Emily groans and reaches for yet more Gerard Butler DVDS from Blockbuster. She would rather listen to the director's commentary on one of his DVDS than watch 23 overpaid wimps chase a bag of air around for 90 minutes.
Don't be shy, give me your cash!
Come buy an over-priced ghost-written chunky hardback from me in person. It will a sincere joy meeting all you constant readers. Thinks me not! For an extra 10 bucks, if you surrender your mailing address, my team will forward you a reproduced Polaroid. If you are not satisfied with the reproduced Polaroid, which captures me in my hay day, then I don't even mind if you pin it up on your dartboard.
Buy my back catalogue of memoirs and I couldn't give a monkeys what you do. Fill your empty shelves, use them as doorstops, or go ahead and give them away to someone else....all fine and dandy with me.
Just so long as you do not expect an autograph or a handshake. My security is vigilant about keeping all my fans at arms length. Some people say I am the luckiest person alive, having my popular chic-lit novels sell the world over. I see it as spoon-feeding drivel to the masses.
I can live without you slobbering all over me at Waterstones. I wish I had a lookalike to fulfil these public appearances.
My husband confessed to attending one of Jordan's book signings just to get a look at her bosom! She revels in attention I detest. The only part of the writing process I crave is your cash at the end of it all.
Preferably from Amazon.
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