The Grouchy Editor

by Nevada Barr

Writing a book (a real one – sorry, Snooki) is an incredibly difficult undertaking.  I know this, because I did it once.  So I don’t take a great deal of pleasure in trashing someone else’s novel (well, maybe yours, Snooki).  But when a writer becomes wealthy and routinely appears on The New York Times Best Seller list by cranking out junk like Track of the Cat … well, I’m gonna bitch about it.  Barr’s book is a bad one, and she is a bad writer.  Here is a sample sentence from this so-called thriller:  “Anna forced every spark of her concentration into her hearing until it felt as if her ears waved around her head on stalks.”  That conjures a ridiculous image, and it’s crappy prose from an amateurish writer.  Even Snooki might do better.

© 2010-2025 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

  by Stephen Hawking, Leonard Mlodinow

I miss Carl Sagan.  Perhaps the late, great scientist-teacher was simplistic – even condescending – to laymen when he described scientific concepts, but at least Sagan’s message got through.  The Grand Design, famed physicist Stephen Hawking’s latest attempt to dumb down physics for the general reader, has the same problems as did Hawking’s A Brief History of Time:  dense mathematical formulas and language that only future Einsteins could love (and comprehend).

Hawking and his co-author seem to understand that multiverses and string theory are difficult to grasp, so they compensate in the worst possible manner.  After particularly complex passages about numerical formulas or mind-bending worlds, they will toss in a lame pun, basically downgrading from doctorate lecture to show-and-tell time for the kiddies.  It’s insulting and annoying.  There are fascinating concepts at play in this book; it’s just too bad that the geniuses behind them aren’t skilled in basic communication.  Sagan – whatever alternate universe you are in – please come back.  Science needs you.

© 2010-2025 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

 by P.D. James

Mystery queen P.D. James is a master of character and atmosphere, but I always have issues with her plots.  Either her endings seem preposterous, or I am unconvinced by various story elements along the way.  True to form, Death in Holy Orders is deliciously moody, and its people are intriguing.  But the ending was unsurprising and a bit anticlimactic (not exactly “preposterous,” this time), and I simply did not buy into certain key motivations earlier in the tale.  Still … if the idea of four deaths at an isolated, seaside theology college appeals to your mystery-loving side, you can do a lot worse than this book.

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by George Bernard Shaw

Here’s a classic example of how Hollywood routinely tacks on happy endings to film adaptations of plays and novels.  Ignoramus that I am, I had no idea that the denouement of My Fair Lady, the Audrey Hepburn-Rex Harrison film version of Shaw’s play, had been so drastically altered from the original ending.  Turns out that Shaw had Eliza marry Freddy in the end, and poor Higgins was left to his own devices.  Shaw’s ending might not be particularly “happy,” but it’s dramatically (and realistically) sound. 

What matters most in this play is Shaw’s language.  All stage and screen versions of Pygmalion are successful because Shaw, with this witty dissection of class, social mobility, and gender roles, was a master of character and dialogue.

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by Nick Hornby

Nick Hornby writes some of the funniest dialogue ever, and his character analyses are always amusing.  But in Juliet, I think there’s an imbalance:  too much introspection, not enough dialogue and action.  Juliet tells the story of what transpires when a staid, middle-aged English couple meets (thanks to the Internet) a retired, reclusive American rock star.  That’s an intriguing setup, but not enough “happens” after that.  A character will do or say something, and Hornby will devote five pages to deconstructing that statement or action.   I kept saying to myself, “OK, OK.  Now can we move on with things?”  Still, although this isn’t my favorite Hornby (that would probably be About a Boy), there’s enough of his trademark wit on display to make it a worthwhile read.

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by Guillermo Martinez

Martinez’s so-so whodunit suffers a bit from what I’ll call “Carl Sagan Syndrome.”  Sagan, the late, great scientist, took a stab at novel writing with Contact – with decidedly mixed results.  When Sagan’s characters in Contact were expounding on something in the author’s comfort zone (astronomy, physics), the story was fascinating.  But when Sagan turned his attention to romance, well … let’s just say his inner 13-year-old was exposed.  Sagan’s love scenes were as awkward as a young math whiz straining to kiss his first crush.  

Similarly, Martinez, a mathematician, does well when his main character, logician Arthur Seldom, is lecturing on the Pythagoreans or speculating on murder, but other elements of the book suffer.  The secondary characters, the historical setting, and even the mystery are bare-boned.  Still, Seldom as a mathematical Sherlock Holmes, and the youthful narrator as his Watson, do make an entertaining duo.

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 by L. Frank Baum

Unlike other classic children’s books, L. Frank Baum’s Wizard seems intended to be taken at face value:  It actually appears to be written for children.  I suppose you could read into it all sorts of political commentary – on slavery, Western imperialism, etc. – but I prefer to see it much as I do the movie, just Dorothy and her three odd pals (and Toto) having wonderful adventures.

It’s interesting to learn which elements of the book that Hollywood chose to tweak. Ruby Slippers instead of Silver Shoes?  No China People?  No Hammer-Heads?  Oh, my!

© 2010-2025 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

 by Mary Roberts Rinehart

It’s a shame the way history rewards some authors and neglects others.  Take, for example, the reputations of Agatha Christie and Mary Roberts Rinehart.  What’s that, you say?  Mary Roberts Who?  My point, exactly.  Everyone knows Dame Agatha, and more power to the great British mystery writer.  But how many readers know of Rinehart, an American novelist who not only predates Christie but who also, in some ways, surpasses her?  The Case of Jennie Brice is the second Rinehart book I’ve read (following The Circular Staircase), and both novels are delightful.  They contain all of the murder and intrigue a reader expects from a Hercule Poirot story, but Rinehart’s characters are more human – and humorous – than anyone found in Christie.

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by Justin Cronin 

The Passage is the literary equivalent of a Hollywood summer blockbuster:  all bluster and special effects, no substance.  Justin Cronin’s vampire saga is a pretentious, derivative, colossal waste of time.  Did I mention that I hated this book?  Actually, The Passage is worse than a shallow film like, say Avatar, because Cronin’s tripe is littered with self-important religious allusions, quotations from Shakespeare — and it takes longer than two hours to finish.

So what, exactly, are my problems with this book?  Start with the characters, with whom the reader has to spend way too much time.  These are cardboard people.  Two of the main characters, Peter and Michael, are virtually indistinguishable.  One of them is handy with engines and computers; other than that, I could rarely tell them apart.  Cronin’s political correctness is gag-inducing – all of his female characters are saintly or indestructible.  In fact, one of them actually turns into a superhero.  Conversely, the males are all either deeply flawed or ineffectual. Spending hundreds of pages with these people is worse than becoming undead. 

What’s worse is the novel’s plot.  Even in the fantasy genre, an author must set ground rules and then follow them.  Cronin’s vampires are sometimes omnipotent, sometimes not, depending on what his plot calls for.  Heroes are routinely killed off and then miraculously resurrected.  This kind of cheating goes on ad nauseam.

Was there anything I liked about The Passage?  The attack scenes are not bad.  Cronin stages some tense, nasty battles between his dullard protagonists and the “smokes.”  But those scenes are too few to overcome all the tedious exposition that surrounds them.  The Passage is a Stephen King wannabe and should be burned at the stake.

© 2010-2025 grouchyeditor.com (text only)

by Janet Evanovich

Once upon a time, many years ago, Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series was the freshest, funniest phenomenon in the publishing industry.  Hollywood long ago forgot how to make engaging screwball comedies, but Evanovich’s Plum, a klutzy, novice bounty hunter, was a slapstick delight.  And so were the supporting characters:  Grandma Mazur, Lula the reformed hooker, and the rest of the gang.

But then, sadly, somewhere around book six or seven in the series, Evanovich either ran out of creative steam or simply sold out.  Stephanie’s adventures are now repetitive and there are very few laugh-out-loud moments.  And yet, I continue to check in with this series.  How come?  I guess the Plum adventures are like Stephanie’s relatives — you know more than enough about them, but there is a certain hokey comfort whenever you pay them a visit.

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