47/48

*sigh* I seem to read in spurts these days. I think mebbe I'm too busy cause I keep forgetting to bring books along in the car. And that's the only time I have to read these days. I did finally finish a couple books tho'.

Book one (or 47 depending) was Echo Park by Michael Connelly. I had brought a different book along to read at the beach on Sunday, but I think I could already tell it wasn't my cuppa tea. So when Libs and I wandered into the local bookstore, I was drawn to this mystery. A few pages in and I was shocked when I realised it wasn't a Britcop story. You mean there are other mysteries out there? And it was good. For a beach read, ya know?

I finished that and went back to my original book The Ha-Ha by Dave King. The back of the book reads:

Howard Kapostash has not spoken in thirty years. The small repository of gestures and simple sounds that he uses to communicate leads most people to assume he is distrubed, and no one understands that Howard is still teh same man he was before a war time injury. But when he agrees to help an old girlfriend by opening his home to her nine-year-old son, the presence of this nervous, resourceful boy in his life transforms Howard utterly. He is afforded a rare glimpse of life outside his shell - with all its exuberant joys and crushing sorrows.


Sounds good, no?

Well it was way too crass for me so after a few chapters I gave up and moved on to Sundays at Tiffany's by James Patterson. Who, incidentally penned some of my favorite movies that used to be books. Like Along Came a Spider and Kiss the Girls. So I thought this one would be awesome. After all, the entire premise of the book was, "What if your imaginary friend from childhood was your one true love?" Sweet, right?

And there was so much potential in this book. In fact, after the first few chapters I was promising myself I was going to read every one of Patterson's books. But the deeper I got into the book, the less satisfying it got. Michael (the imaginary friend) just doesn't seem developed enough as a character to be real (maybe that's the point?) and most of the story telling reads like Shopaholic and Imaginary Friend. Actually, that's about the level of this book and I expected so much more.

James Patterson doesn't actually seem to write his own novels, of all the books listed on the two pages at the back of this book, he'd actually penned maybe 15 and the rest were coauthored. Which makes me wonder why he's such a great author. Why not just sell your ideas and let someone who can write do the writing? Okay, I won't judge based on one book. And maybe this wasn't supposed to be better than chick lit. But it could have been...