Writing Interrupted

Before I resume my self-imposed assignment of writing about bits of our life in the country, I have something to get off my chest:

Sometime back a family member recommended a book to me. I forgot all about it at the time. Then over the Christmas holidays a trusted friend recommended the same book. Then I ran across another relative who was reading the book. Interest piqued, I did some checking and found the book near the top New York Times’ list of best-selling fiction. In fact, remains there at the time of this posting. I then read a glowing NY Times review. Unable to find the book at our local library, I decided to buy it.

I will not mention the title of the book nor the name of the author, only “cuz that’s how I roll.” Anyone interested could probably figure it out.

I was immediately engrossed by the author’s clear and clever writing. The book is divided into three parts, each with an innocuous sub-title that belies the underlying mysterious, juicy suspense and evil that begins to ooze forth.

Captivated, I breezed through Part One in a matter of hours. It was a page-turner, as they say. It was then that I decided to pause and do a search to see what other books the author had penned. I found that she had written two books previous to this, and those books had both enjoyed positive reviews, and I could easily purchase these books at a bargain rate from a used book purveyor. I can only say now, thank goodness I didn't follow through with my impulsivity.

In Part Two, there is a confirmation of what the reader already suspects: that one of the narrators is unreliable. Now nobody loves a good “unreliable narrator” plot more than me. And I adore when a writer can manipulate me, so that I find myself rooting for the ‘bad guys.’ Initially, I was impressed with the author’s insight into the minds of her two main characters. She’d a good grasp of what would seem to be the honest inner-thoughts of both a male and a female struggling in a borderline marriage.

So, I was sucked along.

It was here, in Part Two, that my newly beloved author began to slip and, my friends, she was taking me down with her. I began to notice that her writing exhibited one too many convenient coincidences. I mean how lucky can one person be to have every single thing work out exactly as planned, without ever an error or misstep? Her story became ever more implausible, and her characters ever more ineffectual.

Still, I plowed along into Part Three, hoping the ending would redeem the book. By now the plot showed incongruities. It had loose threads, like a littered tailor shop floor. Her hints of juicy evil had turned to parched clay. And by now the only character I gave two hoots about any more was the dementia-riddled father-in-law.

And then, my friends, came the ending. Holy smokes, was is ever horrendous. She’d tried to clean up those loose threads, but I wasn’t buying any of it. I felt cheated. I felt used. I’d been robbed, both of money and time. And now that I think about it, probably more than a few brain cells. The experience made me think of that part of Malcom X’s speech: “You been had, you been took, you been hoodwinked, bamboozled, led astray, run amok...”

Do I sound angry? Me, who espouses, “It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just different.” It’s just a different style of writing that is not suited to me. I’d like to think I was perturbed, disappointed, and frustrated. Like when you hear about some mastermind criminal and wonder why he uses his extraordinary intellect to no good end.

I did a bit of online research and read that she had found herself stuck about 82% (that’s her figure - 82%?) into her book. Her editor provided help to enable her to finish the book. Okay, I’ll cut her slack, maybe she’s the one who’d "been took, hoodwinked bamboozled, led astray and run amok" by her editor.

So okay, it’s not her it's me. I’m just not a good reader of this type of book. I guess the only crime here is that I can no longer trust New York Times' book reviews. 

So, I’m returning to where I feel safe and sound, with the likes of: Kazuo Ishiguro, a master of unreliable narration, or Patrick deWitt, who can make me not only cheer for his bad guy characters but develop a liking for them as well, or the book I’m currently reading, The Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons. It was published in 1932 and has clever witty, satirical writing that has made me chortle, giggle, snicker, and laugh often enough that I had to move to another room, so as not to disturb my husband, who was concentrating on some project. It’s the kind of book you don’t want to read in the crowded doctor’s waiting room, because people’ll look at you funny when you suddenly let loose with a loud guffaw.