A new book landed on my desk last week. I don't remember requesting a review copy of it, but then, I'm old and worn to a frazzle these days. Plus, my mama taught me not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I took the book home and put it aside for Sunday.
The book is MALICE by Lisa Jackson.
From what I can find on the Internet, Jackson has written romance novels for some time. Reviewers at amazon.com have given her between three and five stars. MALCIE is being released by Kensington Press, known for its romance books.
The plot of the book involves a troubled, temporarily disabled New Orleans cop who is haunted by the death of his ex-wife and some unsolved murders left behind in Los Angeles.
Here's an example of the overwrought writing style that put me right off my Sunday brunch.
(The author sets up the action by having ex and troubled cop have a conversation - 12 years earlier.)
"So, you're not coming home tonight, is that what you're getting at?" Jennifer Bentz sant on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to her ear, as she tried to ignore that all-too-familiar guilty noose of monogamy that was strangling her even as it frayed.
Not that she reall blamed him Theirs was a tenuous, if sometimes passionate, relationship. And she was forever "the bad one," as she though of herself, "the adultress." Even now, the scnet of recent sex teased her nostrils in the too-warm bedroom, reminding her of her sins. Two half-full martini glasses stood next to a sweating shaker on the bedside table, evidence that she hadn't been alone. "When, then?" she asked. "When will you show up?"
"Tomorrow. Maybe." Rick was on his cell in a squad car. She heard the sounds of traffic in the background, knew he was being evaise and tight-lipped because his partner was driving and could overhear at least one of the stilted conversation.
She tried again. Lowered her voice. "Would it help if I said I miss you?"
No response. Of course. God, she hated this. Being the pathetic, whining woman, beggin for him to see her. It just wasn't her style. Not her style at all. Men were the ones who usually beed, and she got off on it.
I can't make this stuff up ... and I didn't get past page page 8 before I flipped to the back, read the last 4 pages and gave up.
Save yourself several hours of literary torture. Watch a bad made-for-TV movie. Clean your bathroom or have a garage sale. Do anything but pick up this book. Life is too short to put up with overwrought, badly written, poorly plotted fiction.
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