Ok, one more. I have been saving these up and just got around to typing them. So there.
This one is from Ape House by Sara Gruen.
This is about a man who is reading his wife’s novel for the first time. I got a very similar review about mine.
When she finally gave it to him, John flipped through the pages with a growing sense of unease. He hoped earnestly and with his soul that he was wrong — after all, his own guilty pleasures included Dan Brown and Michael Crighton — and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that the novel was missing that crucial something. Her prose was beautiful and polished and swept him along, but by the time he reached the end she had not blown up a single thing. There was no car wreck, no murder, no secret brotherhood or international plague. It was psychological and literary and while John understood that there were people who enjoyed such books, he wasn’t one of them, which was exceedingly unfortunate given that his wife had just written one and wanted his opinion. When his silence finally grew conspicuous, he lied copiously and through his teeth.