“What’s the worst ‘best’ book you’ve ever read — the one everyone says is so great, but you can’t figure out why?”
I've thought on this all day, and in addition to the previously ranted-against Friday Night Knitting Club, I've come up with these titles:
The Devil Wears Prada. Overall, great, but miles too long. The editor needed to wield a massive battle ax against the copy. Way. too. much. bitter inner monologue. I'd skip whole paragraphs or pages of complaining, whining, and ranting. It's a shame too, because most of it was awesome.
Sam's letters to Jennifer. I thought that novel was 100% 'touching, moving' tripe. Plain and simple. It was even too soft and predictable to qualify as decent vacation reading. The only benefit I found to reading that book was that I could add another title to my books-read list.
Most (if not all) Nicholas Sparks novels. I made it through three of his books before deciding that he writes too well for me to be able to withstand the tragic deaths of any more of his protagonists, whom I'd grown to care about. The Notebook made me weep, years before it was put on the big screen. I've sworn off Nicholas Sparks.