Dan Taylor's Blog, page 3

Amazon Are Suing the Fuck Out Of Fake-Review Writers

It’s not news that Amazon products tend to have bogus reviews. Kindle books are probably the worst offenders. But what might be news to you, if you’re new to the internet and think that ‘to google’ means to shake a snow globe, is that reviews for Amazon products can readily be bought from a number of websites. Amazon, in their ongoing war against shady and biased reviews, are suing over 1000 fake-review writers who offer their services through Fiverr.com, an online marketplace offering tasks and services beginning at $5 per job performed.

“Go ahead, son. Give it a google.”

This is great news for authors with well-edited books who rely on honest reviews to inform customers whether the book is right for them. Amazon customers can now shop with more confidence, and the playing field for honest self-published authors has been somewhat leveled.

“What you reading? I’ll happily review it for you.”

But you’ve got to feel for the bogus-review writers, though, right? Informing Kindle customers that the badly edited vampire-on-werewolf smut they’re thinking of buying is comparable to Dickens, among other fraudulent claims, might cripple them financially. My heart bleeds for them, at least oozes blood a little, so I thought I’d dedicate this week’s blog post to helping them out. Their days of reviewing books they haven’t read are over, but it doesn’t have to mean financial ruin. Below are five equally respectable services they can offer for $5 through Fiverr.com.

The Fiverr.com Virtual Blowjob Experience

This needs little explanation. It involves a webcam, a reformed fake-review writer’s gaping mouth, and a desperate dude who has a strong imagination and a large bottle of lube.

Gig extras: Virtual Ball Cupping Experience.

“How do we do this?”

2. “I’ll send a virus to your worst enemy’s computer for $5!”

Unable to put your bullying by Tommy what’s his name behind you from your highschool days? Now you can put that hatred to bed, with a Trojan horse remote installed by a reformed fake-review writer.

Gig extras: any nude photos can be extracted from your worst enemy’s computer and posted on a range of social media sites.

“The dipshit sent an actual horse! Can you believe it?”

3. “I’ll mail anthrax to your boss’s address after you didn’t get that promotion you didn’t deserve. Only $5!”

You’re totally right. Bill didn’t deserve it. And yes, it’s unfair that you won’t be able to afford your wife’s breast augmentation surgery you’ve been looking forward to for so long. The solution? Your boss won’t be able to breathe easy again!

Gig extras: can also get that kindergarten teacher who implied little Joanie might be dumb.

“You can’t fire me, because I already quit!”

4. “I’ll break up with your girlfriend for you for $5!”

Has she been acting like a bitch lately? Been together so long you can’t muster up the nerve to do it yourself? No problem! Just order the gig and provide her cell number in the ‘details’ section.

Gig extras: also offers the ‘Virtual Blowjob Experience’ for those subsequent lonely Friday nights.

“He aint worth one of your tears.”

5. “I can put your neighbor’s cat up a tree for $5!”

Guy been mowing the lawn early on Saturday morning? Do you think 9 pm isn’t a reasonable time to take out the trash? Get the dude back. Don’t worry, the cat won’t feel a thing!

Gig extras: he can throw in the dog, too. Shit, he’ll put anything up there with four legs as long as you pay him $5.

“Dude said ‘cat’…”

So there you have it. Five great alternative career opportunities for the reformed fake-review writer. Feel free to add your own in the comments section. These guys need all the help they can get, and it’s important to provide an empathetic response to their problem, among all the knee-jerk responses chastising them we’re sure to get from bloggers.

My books, only ever honestly reviewed, can be checked out here.

You can also like my Facebook page and say hi. I have no idea why, but those likes are important.

My Totally Straight Love Letter to Jason Statham

As an indie author, I spend quite a bit of time on Twitter. I write the odd joke, plug the shit out of my book series, and try to steer you off Twitter and onto my blog with carefully chosen and manipulated silly photos, which is probably why you’re reading this now. There are two standout things I’ve learned from interacting with other Twitter users: 1) cats are way more popular than I thought they were, and 2) there’s a whole load of crazy in the world. And I mean a shit-ton.

Say cheese!

Of all the kinds of crazy I’ve witnessed, my current favorite has to be intense, foaming-at-the-mouth-to-meet-their-idol fandom. Before you go straight to the comments section to call me an asswipe, hear me out. I get regular fandom. It gives us purpose, in a pathetic kind of way. We can get through a difficult day knowing we can go home and worship Justin Bieber, One Direction, or Kermit the Frog. (I was scraping the bottom of the barrel there.)

Kermit’s tactic for hiding from rabid fans involves leaves. By winter he’s fucked.

Being a fan is generally an innocuous pursuit, but I think we can both agree there’s healthy interest, and not-so-healthy interest. I believe the difference is this: the sane fan enjoys that famous person enriching their life, whereas the insane fan wants to be part of their idol’s life. They’ll stop at nothing to meet their idol, possibly even if they’re deceased. Common symptoms are: creepy narcissism, an inability to talk or post about anything else, and a total disregard for all the things in the world that actually matter. A rarer symptom is having their idol’s surname as their surname for their Twitter handle (true story).

The often deadly Justin Bieber virus. Highly contagious, especially among prepubescent girls.

I truly envy these people. While I’m worried about my receding hairline, whether to buy life insurance, or my daily fiber intake, these people are so distracted they couldn’t possibly give a shit about any of those things. That seems like a cool place to be.

A frightening display of fellowship by a pack of foot sport enthusiasts.

I want me some, at least for a little while. Just a couple minutes. And what better way than to write a letter, ostensibly writing about and to my idol, but not being able to keep my hand away from the cookie jar and inevitably rambling on about myself. Receding hairline…what receding hairline? By God, it’s working!

Cue wavy dissolve before dream sequence.

Dear Jason Statham,

Let me start out by saying I love your movies. But this wasn’t always the case. When I was at university, I used to wear a bowtie and think that I liked art-house films with little dialog, lots of staring into space, and actors smoking cigarettes as though they were kissing a beautiful lady with the patience of a Tibetan monk. But I’m happy to say I’m cured now. I know I’ll never be fully over this disease—it’s definitely a disease, Jason—but I’m in recovery. It’s all thanks to you.

(Can I call you Jay? Is that cool with you? Is it even short for Jason? Forget it, I’ll just carry on writing Jason.)

Regardless, with your performance in The Transporter, you helped me discover that I don’t like artsy movies. I like movies that don’t take themselves too seriously, movies in which the actors have bulging muscles, raise one eyebrow after delivering a cheesy line, and straighten their shirt collar after kicking a bad guy’s ass. I feel like I’m free, like I’ve discovered who I am, and it all started with you. I love you, Jason, but not in that way. Not that there’d be anything wrong with that.

Here I am…probably shouldn’t have worn that shirt

This lack of pretension seeped into other areas of my life: I no longer pretend that I like scallops, classical music, or those fancy potato chips that boast the quality of the soil used to grow their silly unpeeled potatoes. Cheez Doodles all the way for me, Jason. Most importantly, it’s influenced my writing style: gone are the trite metaphors and observations, unnecessary and overlong descriptions of rooms and places, and intellectualization of characters’ emotions. In their place is dumb fun. Fast-paced, exciting, and a little silly: like watching two giraffes engaged in a taekwondo bout.

This is my girlfriend. She is not you, Jason Statham.

As a tribute, I make reference to you in my novel Bad Guy by Proxy. I shoehorned in your doing your own stunts—super-fun fact, by the way. And there’s even a character loosely based on you. He’s a martial artist and has a bald head. (I’ve often thought of kissing yours, in a manly way, like when I turn my dad’s attempt at a handshake into a hug.)

Jason, I salute you. Keep up the good work. I’ll carry on watching if you keep acting in that ironic, self-aware way of yours. You’ll never play Macbeth, and for that I’d like to kiss you in a special place—in a totally straight way.

Yours sincerely,

Dan Statham

If reading about my healthy interest in Jason Statham has convinced you I’d make a decent comedy thriller writer, you’re in a luck, because that happens to be the exact genre I write in. You can check out the words and punctuation I have for sale here.

Have I Created a Monster?

I’m rubbish at being American. So bad, in fact, that I’m British. This causes me a problem when writing my Jake Hancock P.I. series, which is set mostly in Hollywood. That’s why I have a dedicated beta reader—the eagle-eyed Tammy McGowan of Washington D.C.—to spot any British English phrases, any references someone over the pond wouldn’t get, and any words that feel as right in an American’s mouth as a crumpet with butter.

After doing a great job with the first novel, I asked Tammy, “So, what do you think?”

“It’s good. It’s witty, fresh,” she replied.

I sensed a but, so I didn’t reply.

“But there’s one problem.”

“Okay…”

“Jake’s a bit of an asshole.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow. Phew! I kind of knew he was when I wrote him. He’s supposed to be that way. I’d come to terms with that already, and I’m prepared to take my lumps. He’s only supposed to appeal to a small demographic of readers.

But she’d sown seeds of doubt in my mind. What if this ‘Jake’s a bit of an asshole’ thing is a bigger problem than I initially thought? What if no one likes him? I like him, but wait, does this mean I’m an asshole? Is this why I have few friends?

Instead of talking this problem through with her, I got on the defensive.

“That’s cool. He’s supposed to be an asshole.”

“I don’t think he’ll appeal to American readers. If someone acted that way in America, people would think that he has bad social skills, has lived overseas for a while, or is…”

“An asshole?”

“Right.”

I inspected dirt under one of my fingernails. “Do you think that’ll be a problem?”

I knew the answer before I asked. We’re not talking about a typo or spelling error that can easily be fixed. It’s a huge problem. If I worked quickly, I could possibly make Jake less of an asshole in the time it would take to write a whole new novel.

I went away from the conversation disheartened. I thought about scrapping my novel. I even phoned my dad to talk the problem through. His solution was simple: “Who’s Jake?”

Now clearly he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about when I recounted the conversation with Tammy. But maybe he’d hit upon something. Who is Jake? I thought.

He’s arrogant, narcissistic, flippant and, as far as Tammy’s concerned, he’ll appeal to American readers like a barbecue does a vegan. Is this necessarily a bad thing? Does the world need another clean-cut hero?

Days passed and I managed to trample on those seeds of doubt. I got back to the confidence I felt when I wrote the manuscript, or at least enough steps in front of the doubt to not worry too much about it. I no longer think Jake being an asshole is a problem. To some people he will be. But not everyone. Some readers out there will get him.

Tammy offered, and continues to offer, great advice. But this time I ignored her. Not because I think she’s wrong, just that she likes what she likes and I like what I like. Maybe I’m oversimplifying it. Maybe I should imagine a graph that compares curves of book sales for both a sterilized version of Jake and the Jake that I wrote—but that isn’t me. I want readers to like what comes naturally to me, which happens to be writing about a character that most people will think is an asshole.

Besides, not everyone thinks I’m an asshole. At least I hope.

I spoke to Tammy later on, and told her this: “If he’s not able to make enemies, he won’t make any friends.”

What do you think? Have I created a monster?

Hancock P.I. is now available to download for Kindle on Amazon.