Dear E.L. James,
It’s not that I hate your poorly written, poorly structured, terrible plot etc. etc. etc. book, It’s that it makes me so angry that it’s become mainstream.
First of all, A TWILIGHT FREAKING FANFIC? Come on. How low can you really get here?
Second of all, I’d like to address some issues. Your character, Christian, likes to call the “heroine” (can I call her that if she has no backbone, character development or ANY EMOTION ASIDE FROM GASPING?) terrible, abusive names. Example: “Christ Ana, how could you be so stupid?”
He scares her. Not in a sexy way, in a “I could potentially kill you because I give zero fucks about you” kinda way.
Furthermore, he manipulates her by using the excuse of his terrible childhood as reasoning as to why Ana should do whatever he says. What kind of healthy relationship involves the guy forcing the girl to work out four times a fucking week?! It’s sickening.
Now hold on there E – may I call you E? I will anyways. I’m not saying BDSM is a bad thing. No, no, it involves a loving relationship based on consent, something that is slightly forgotten in the book. Christian mocks Ana for using her safeword. He ridicules her in front of his friends for this, manipulating her once again into being more compliant. He threatens her. He stalks her. WHO WOULD WANT AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP?
Apparently, the answer to that is thousands of confused young women and, of course, you. Now let me tell you why this is NOT what you should want:
Because I hated being told what to wear. I hated being stalked. I hated being obsessively texted to the point where if I took a shower without saying so, I’d return to four missed calls. I hated being in an abusive relationship for fourteen of the worst months of my life, but most importantly I hated myself for not being able to leave. And on the day I finally did, I found out that the threats weren’t empty.
I hate you. I hate you as a woman, as an author and as a person. I hate the way you think it’s okay for people to be so completely controlled by a person. I hate they way you glorify abuse (NO THE STUFF THEY DO IN BED IS NOT ABUSE; THE THREATS AND VERBAL ATTACKS ARE). I hate the way you made me remember how he painted fifty shades of grey on my arms, on my neck, on my hips.
I hate the way people love your disgusting excuse of a novel.
Go fuck yourself.