by Danielle Steel, 2008
As I recall, the conversation with one of my more literate friends went like this:
Mike: "Have you ever read Danielle Steel?"
Me: "I... don't think so. She writes romances."
Mike: "No. She writes literature. Her books cover the gamut of human experience. She's the best selling author in the world today."
Me: "Oh. OK, I'l have to give her a try."
Soon after, I came across one of Steel's books, "Rogue". Always willing to have my assumptions proved wrong and anxious to find another great storyteller, I dove in.
Wow. Talk about bad. The reader is told that the title character is a great guy but something of a Peter Pan—he refuses to grow up. Told, mind you, not shown. And then... we're told again.
And... OK, you get the idea.
I've never seen so much repetition in a book. If each instance was clever or insightful, I might forgive her. Make that, any instance. But I couldn't finish this one. I barely made it through the first chapter.
Seriously, is this what sells in America these days? Now I'm depressed.