I'm almost finished with Dan Brown's latest novel,
Inferno, so naturally today's blogpost is written in his, let us call it 'style'. Dan Brown now picks up this blogpost narrative as Dan Brown himself would pick it up, as Dan Brown himself:
Renowned author Dan Brown woke up in his luxurious four-poster bed in his
expensive $10 million house – and immediately he felt angry.
Most people
would have thought that the 48-year-old man had no reason to be angry. After
all, the famous writer just had a new book come out. But that was the problem.
A new book meant an inevitable attack on the rich novelist by the wealthy
wordsmith’s fiercest foes. The critics.
Renowned author Dan Brown hated the critics. Ever since he had become one of
the world’s top renowned authors they had made fun of him. They had mocked
bestselling book The Da Vinci Code, successful novel Digital
Fortress, popular tome Deception Point, money-spinning volume Angels
& Demons and chart-topping work of narrative fiction The Lost
Symbol.
The critics said his writing was clumsy, ungrammatical, repetitive and
repetitive. They said it was full of unnecessary tautology. They said his
prose was swamped in a sea of mixed metaphors. For some reason they found
something funny in sentences such as “His eyes went white, like a shark
about to attack.”
They even say my books are packed with banal and
superfluous description, thought the 5ft 9in man. He particularly hated
it when they said his imagery was nonsensical. It made his insect eyes flash
like a rocket.
Renowned author Dan Brown got out of his luxurious four-poster bed in his
expensive $10 million house and paced the bedroom, using the feet located at
the ends of his two legs to propel him forwards. He knew he shouldn’t care
what a few jealous critics thought. His new book Inferno had just come out, and the 480-page hardback published by Doubleday with a recommended
US retail price of $29.95 was sure to be a hit. Wasn’t it?
I’ll call my agent, pondered the prosperous scribe. He reached
for the telephone using one of his two hands. “Hello, this is renowned
author Dan Brown,” spoke renowned author Dan Brown. “I want to talk to
literary agent John Unconvincingname.”
“Mr Unconvincingname, it’s renowned author Dan Brown,” told the voice at the
other end of the line. Instantly the voice at the other end of the line was
replaced by a different voice at the other end of the line. “Hello, it’s
literary agent John Unconvincingname,” informed the new voice at the other
end of the line.
“Hello agent John, it’s client Dan,” commented the pecunious scribbler. “I’m
worried about my new book Inferno. I think critics are going to say it’s badly
written.”
The voice at the other end of the line gave a sigh, like a mighty oak toppling
into a great river, or something else that didn’t sound like a sigh if you
gave it a moment’s thought. “Who cares what the stupid critics say?” advised
the literary agent. “They’re just snobs. You have millions of fans.”
That’s true, mused the accomplished composer of thrillers that
combined religion, high culture and conspiracy theories. His books were read
by everyone from renowned politician President Obama to renowned musician
Britney Spears. It was said that a copy of The Da Vinci Code had even
found its way into the hands of renowned monarch the Queen. He was grateful
for his good fortune, and gave thanks every night in his prayers to renowned
deity God.
“Think of all the money you’ve made,” recommended the literary agent. That was
true too. The thriving ink-slinger’s wealth had allowed him to indulge his
passion for great art. Among his proudest purchases were a specially
commissioned landscape by acclaimed painter Vincent van Gogh and a signed
first edition by revered scriptwriter William Shakespeare.
Renowned author Dan Brown smiled, the ends of his mouth curving upwards in a
physical expression of pleasure. He felt much better. If your books brought
innocent delight to millions of readers, what did it matter whether you knew
the difference between a transitive and an intransitive verb?
“Thanks, John,” he thanked. Then he put down the telephone and perambulated on
foot to the desk behind which he habitually sat on a chair to write his
famous books on an Apple iMac MD093B/A computer. New book Inferno, the
latest in his celebrated series about fictional Harvard professor Robert
Langdon, was inspired by top Italian poet Dante. It wouldn’t be the last in
the lucrative sequence, either. He had all the sequels mapped out. The
Mozart Acrostic. The Michelangelo Wordsearch. The Newton Sudoku.
The 190lb adult male human being nodded his head to indicate satisfaction and
returned to his bedroom by walking there. Still asleep in the luxurious
four-poster bed of the expensive $10 million house was beautiful wife Mrs
Brown. Renowned author Dan Brown gazed admiringly at the pulchritudinous
brunette’s blonde tresses, flowing from her head like a stream but made from
hair instead of water and without any fish in. She was as majestic as the
finest sculpture by Caravaggio or the most coveted portrait by Rodin. I
like the attractive woman, thought the successful man.
Perhaps one day, inspired by beautiful wife Mrs Brown, he would move into
romantic poetry, like market-leading British rhymester John Keats. That
would be good, opined the talented person, and got back into the
luxurious four-poster bed. He felt as happy as a man who has something to be
happy about and is suitably happy about it.
.
