spare time

Lucy's asleep, dinner is in the crock pot, I just folded laundry, I dusted earlier this week, and I can't vacuum while she's snoozing.
What does a girl do with herself when--there's nothing pressing to do?
One writes a book review, of course.
I love mystery novels. Especially the almost bloodless, formal type, like Ngaio Marsh or Agatha Christie or Alexander McCall Smith, or the slightly more bloody PD James (love her the best) or even the somewhat raunchy Elizabeth George. Oh, for a good mystery to drown my head in.
So it was with much anticipation that I received "Maisie Dobbs" in the mail from PBS the other day. It was touted as like the Ladies #1 Detective Agency series, but set in post WWI Britain.
Just the ticket, I thought.

Oh, the disappointment!!

Why did this book become a bestseller? It's not awful, but it's so...obvious. The descriptions were poorly written. Maisie steeples her hands and places them underneath her chin to indicate that she's thinking. How...cliche! I kept rolling my eyes.
I mean, I roll my eyes a little bit with Precious Ramotswe, but geez, there's so much that's refreshing in Smith's novels. Botswana, for one. Witty dialogue, for another.
In contrast, everyone in Maisie Dobbs is trying too hard.
Oh--I just figured it out. There's no irony in the novel at all. It's so earnest it made my teeth hurt. When the author says characters are laughing, I don't really believe her. Or I'm not laughing with them.

What I don't understand is how the book got such glowing reviews. It takes all kinds, I guess--but if someone had turned this in for a fiction writing class, I would have been mostly positive (good historical detail, and enough suspense to get me through the novel--hey, I did look forward to finishing it). But I would have set the novelist down for a few lessons in characterization, proper use of attribution ("What's wrong, Dad?" Maisie queried is not okay) and more edge.

I guess I'm growing curmudgeonly if I'm this disdainful of a New York Times bestseller. Jacqueline Winspear, the author, obviously figured out her audience, and damn the attribution errors.

Sigh. Just goes to show: I should be a bestselling novelist.
Hey, if Lucy keeps sleeping this well, I might have time to write something other than this blog.