- E.L. James. And I’m fairly sure I don’t want to: it’s so saturated into popular culture as a Trashy Book (not to mention Rapey Book) that I wouldn’t be able to look past the trashiness (and the rapeyness).
- Jim Butcher. I’ve sort of vaguely been meaning to read the Dresden Files for a while now, and I will! Eventually! When I forget that the last person who recommended them to me also expressed admiration for Orson Scott Card and surprise that a woman might be able to write space opera. Awkward.
- Jeff VanderMeer. VanderMeer’s Southern Reach trilogy is one of those things which I sort of always mean to pick up but which always seems less interesting than other things in the shop. One day.
- Ursula K. LeGuin. I know that she is one of the founding mothers of modern fantasy, but I’ve never felt very drawn to her work. Sorry.
- James Herbert. Nuh-uh. I cannot deal with horror stories. Unless they are called House of Leaves or written by Marisha Pessl. And sometimes not even then.
- Jodi Picoult. It’s just not the genre I read in, or have any particular interest in reading.
- Cassandra Clare. I mean, Clare is quite infamously a plagiarist, and her books sound very extruded-fantasy-product-ish.
- Franz Kafka. I will read Metamorphosis one day. Probably.
- Jonathan Franzen. Franzen’s on my mind because of the Tournament of Books, really. There is a small chance that I will read Purity, but I probably won’t.
- Lois McMaster Bujold. I will start the Vorkosigan saga this year! I do believe in fairies!
(The theme for this post was suggested by the Broke and the Bookish’s weekly meme Top Ten Tuesday.)