Joyce L Buckley, who 'reviews under the pseudonym 'Two Shoes'. Every now and then, one of these necrophiliacs hobbles in with words of wisdom regarding my books. Almost always they are women--a recent exception was a gay pastor who allegedly takes himself in hand while watching old Jean Harlow movies, following hot in the footsteps of another gay pastor who allegedly expired doing the same while lusting over Errol Flynn. They are a special breed.
In some ways I feel honoured that some old biddy would sit down at her computer for hours just to diss little old me, rather than just ignore me--invariably the 'reviews' get removed. And such reviews DO sell books, which is why I am persistently in the best-sellers, sometimes with books that have been out for years--and on at least six occasions reprinted in the wake of the fuss--while the rivals which these bozos support invariably fall into the ditch. When I first started out in 1987, my then agent made me aware of the two primary don'ts of publishing. 'Never attack another writer in print,' David Bolt said. 'And never tell people to buy your books, as they invariably will do the opposite. Let them decide for themselves.' Good advice which I have heeded.
Joyce L Buckley uses such terms to describe me as 'crook', 'trash', 'fraudulent' and 'blood-sucking leech'. She asks that I 'should be tarred and feathered and ridden out of town', and asks for all good reviews of my books to be removed from Amazon.
Her reason for this? I observed that Clark Gable had bad breath and slept his way up the Hollywood ladder. One imagines this elderly Clarkiephobe prancing about her garden dressed as bucolic Scarlett O'Hara shrieking that tomorrow will be another day while the birds drop out of the trees.
'Buckleys' is a quaint English term for 'no chance', and a quick flick through this No-Chancer's reviews offers an insight into her character. She reviews salad-dressings and make up--though she does (check out her picture on Amazon and see for yourselves) oddly resemble a cross between Carol Channing and a corpse. She dislikes people writing about Jews and Einstein--and tries to make herself appear half-human by liking opera and Piaf. I don't doubt for one moment that right now she'll be sharpening her claws regarding my work on the latter. Oh, and she has a passion for fingerless gloves--but not for matching masks to cover that sardonic mush.
Maybe she should pair up with the aforementioned gentleman of the cloth for a remake of 'Rain'. She looks like she might enjoy living in a swamp! Even the pictures on her wall are not straight!