Anne Rice is pretty much the grande dame of the urban fantasy genre, having written a few brilliant vampire books and a bunch of mediocre-to-shitty ones. She also spawned the wangsty vampire who hates himself for being a monster, wears lace shirts, etc. It started off great, but after Lestat met God and she ran out of secondary characters to write life stories for, it basically turned into a Victorian Goth version of Twilight where Lestat ended up falling madly in love (at first sight) with Rice's Sue.
Then she wrote a disgustingly bad finale to the Vampire Chronicles, became a Catholic again, decided to write some books about Jesus' childhood (I kid thee not), wrote a book about rediscovering her faith, and rejected all Christianity again once she had wrung enough money from buyers (since the time when she allegedly lost her faith was WHILE WRITING THAT BOOK, but she didn't bother to mention it until AFTER she got paid money from lots of fans). Now she's dumped the religious fiction again and is going to write... other paranormal crap. I think it's either about werewolves or Atlantis. Or maybe both.
But that isn't what I'm here to bash today. I'm here to talk about her nonfiction diarrhea of the mouth.
I kid thee not. Long before LKH ranted at anyone who didn't like her brilliant books, Patricia Cornwell accused Congress of conspiring against her or Candace Sams went on a clusterfuckfest, Anne Rice was the queen of egocentric authorial madness. She's said and done all sorts of insane shit over the years, including posting incoherent rants on amazon.com and whining about how the Interbutts allows people to say mean things to her.
And oh my, but there is LOTS of fuel here.