Ok, I admit it, I categorise writers. Maybe I'm a bitter bitch. But that's ok too because I don't mind. But whatever book I pick up, whatever writer I pick up is sliced into the following:

"pompous pricks" - I won't mention any names (Franzen) but these type of writers are so full of themselves and their opinions about the world that no matter how hard they try to be intellectual and writer-like they fail miserably because they have no guts - most literary critics fall under this category - this type of writer (Self) would prefer it if you have a dictionary next to their book

"nice try" - again, no names given (Palahniuk) as this type of writer gives you a good read but no depth because they're too busy showing off - this type of writer is usually well off (Houellebecq) and as a writer I learn from their whoring techniques, add loads of smut, make it 'controversial', cash in on the latest fad or political angst

"good stuff" - Richard Yates, John Fante, Knut Hamsun, there's a lot of good stuff that's been written and I find that nobody's reading it because most of these writers aren't taught in schools or marketed to the lemmings.

It takes me a while to find a book worth reading all the way through. I usually manage to find one. And if I'm satisfied the day after I finish reading then the text was noteworthy. A good read can come out of the blue. Your favourite writers can disappoint you. It is difficult to stay honest these days. There is bullshit worth reading. I try very hard to keep an open mind. I like recommendations. I like bitter people, hard-up people, depressed people, poor people, because when these people smile you know it's something worth smiling for.