OK, so I started reading a novel. The premise: a “rogue” archeologist makes an amazing discovery. Yeh, Dan Brown-ish, but maybe it’ll get better. Problem #1: this “brilliant” archeologist is a moron. I find myself almost immediately wanting to take her by the scruff of her neck and shake some sense into her. Dislike much? Yeh, much.
So, enter another character: the archeologist’s estranged husband who is supposedly some sort of mountain climber of note. Yeh, problem #2: he’s a dislikable moron, too. Within about a page and a half of this character’s entrance, I wanted the writer to kill him off–quickly! Dislike much? Yeh, much.
Asked myself if I were willing to put up with the crap I’d have to in order to read a book built around two characters who’d be better written out of the story so it could be transformed into a much more pleasing story about Jack the Ripper’s rebirth or some such. Answer: nah. These are “people” whose story I do not want to know. Buh-bye!
What little I read was better than a similar sample of Dan Brown dreck, but that’s damning with no praise at all. At least it was free, even if I may never recover from the brain cells it killed.