M.J. Szimanski has been plagued with his unusual writing style since an H.L. Mencken book hit him over the head one day and opened his eyes to how writing could be. Rather than pursuing nasty litigation with everyone responsible for his many years of vapid English language and writing "education," he decided to drink fine but affordable French wine on consecutive nights until all traces of that treachery abated.
Now more well-adjusted, happy and sober since yesterday, he delights in presenting a book he's written that he has determined, through trial and error, no one in their right mind wants to read -- "Bereaveability: Spending a Lifetime Avoiding the Reality of Your Death."
He has determined why:
1) He made up the word that is the title. He justifies its definition in the beginning of the book, but it's still silly. His argument was that it was the only URL still available on the Internet.
2) Few, if any, people want to read anything having to do with their own deaths. Hell, forcing his father to discuss life insurance and funeral plots almost killed his mother. That should have been a clue.
3) He self-published the book. Sure, it's now available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble and all that, but it lacks that certain snob appeal and really high price tag that people seem to like so much.
4) He justified using new words he made up such as "toegaggery" while borderline violating many laws of grammar with his shameless alliterations such as "soul-sucking, subterranean sojourns" and "Corpse for corpse, contemporary wars have many a current contagion beat."
Although the book TECHNICALLY delves into facing your own death, its actual intent is to allow the reader to do so in order to put that part of themselves behind them and better enjoy what's left of their lives. Seriously.
He lives in Salem, Massachusetts which seemed like as good a place as any to churn out such shenanigistic chum.