To the Girl Who Thinks She Has the Right To Brag Because She Self Published a Novel at Nineteen
When you said to me, in that snarky tone, “Well I wrote a book, what have you done lately?”. I was not at all impressed. Though it is true you wrote a book, in the loosest sense of the word, as in a bunch of paper with words on it bound together by a cover, it must be mentioned that you wrote a bad book. A book, indeed, but not one I’d recommend anyone to read. And since the axiom of quality over quantity is doubly true in this age of mass production, I would argue that the nap I took this afternoon, being a very good nap, was much more accomplished than your very bad book. Furthermore, your book, which you take such undeserved pride in, was self published which, it’s worth noting, is the equivalent of patting yourself on the back with one hand and clapping over the fact with the other.
