I
blame my childhood. At meals I was taught always to clean my plate.
Somehow that sense of obligation extended to my reading.
So
I'm choosy about what novels I begin. Does the back cover promise a
story that's worth several evenings? And does the craft of the
opening page suggest the author knows how to assemble a story?
But
sometimes I take shortcuts. Especially with authors whose books I've
read. I expect that another installment in a series means similar
quality.
Perhaps
I view a book series like any other franchise. Today I visited two
recently opened outlets of a favorite store that's just come to
Colorado.
The
closer store had almost no parking. And of the four items on my list,
they were out of stock on three. So I tried the other store. Inside,
music blared to the point of distraction. And they also had just one
of the items I wanted.
Now
I'm on my guard. I'll likely return, but I won't be as eager – or
optimistic about my chances of success. And if I speak to others, any
recommendation will carry cautions.
Much
like my assessment of the author whose book I just abandoned.
I've
always liked the genre (back when her books were sold as mysteries;
the latest was labeled a “novel of suspense”). The stories are
set in a town I know. And the author often describes delicious meals.
I was ready to love this book.
But
the characters felt flat. And the stakes never seemed personal. The
characters went through the motions, as though they were strapped
into a theme park ride.
Theme
park rides are okay, but I expected something more. Next time, if there is
one, I'll have lower hopes. Or look for a novel from an author who's
still hungry.
