I was sad to learn recently that Harold Pinter and I will never be best mates, and not just because he is dead. Nor because he was a Nobel Prize-winning literary genius, while my writing career peaked in the late 2000s, when I was knocking out three Wii shovelware reviews a day.
According to Pinter’s wife, Antonia Fraser, “Harold did not understand the mentality of one who is keenly awaiting the next Lee Child.” Thus, alas, Harold Pinter would not understand me, because I love that shit.
For those who don’t know, Lee Child is the author of a hugely successful series of thrillers. They all star Jack Reacher, a burly ex-military policeman who spends his time drifting around America. He tries to mind his own business but endlessly wanders into trouble. There is always a mystery to solve and a wrong to be righted, and this is always achieved with excessive amounts of violence. Imagine Murder, She Wrote except Angela Lansbury has a buzz cut and giant pecs, and instead of writing jolly novels about murder, she uses her typewriter to stove people’s heads in.
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