It’s the book that we’re all talking about – and I mean ALL. It’s nigh on impossible to get away from 50 Shades of Grey by E L James at the moment.
It’s talked about at book clubs, in offices, on the radio and even in the aisles of Asda. Not since Harry Potter’s last outing do I remember such a constant source of speculation and interest.
The hunt for 50 Shades led me into the book aisle in my supermarket, where I instantly spied the right shelf.
Why else would there be a group of women, trolleys full, loitering in the fiction aisle?
We all know that you buy your fashion and fiction before your perishables. There could be only one book drawing them, and me, closer. One that they might be slightly embarrassed about buying due to its salacious nature, hence the perishables first.
I cut through the nervous tittering and addressed one of the women with an ‘I’ll have one of those please’ comment.
She didn’t even ask what I was referring to, instantly reaching for a copy which she popped into my trolley as I rolled on by. It was like a literature drive-thru.
Critics are lambasting its sameness page after page. Oh, but what sameness it is.
Was there ever any doubt that basing a story loosely around the rich, beautiful Edward from Twilight and the young, innocent and equally-as-gorgeous Bella would succeed?
Add in a whole wodge of grown-up action of the dominant/submissive kind and you’ve got the perfect recipe for a bestseller.
It’s interesting that the critics sharpen their talons into spiky little points as soon as a book such as this becomes popular.
I’d heard how badly written 50 Shades is, how lame the plot is, how full of holes it is, how it’s nothing more than gilded Mills and Boon.
It makes me laugh that we’re all so judgmental of anything that sells so many copies.
To be any good, it seems a book must require some degree of cerebral, rather than carnal, action. But in this case carnal has blown cerebral out of the water.