Friday, November 05, 2004

Dear Michael Cunningham,

I'm sorry. I really have tried to enjoy your books. I managed to slog my way through A Home at the End of the World, but I have to admit I wasn't excited by it. I thought your characters were whiny and way too self-absorbed. I'm here to tell you I'm quitting halfway through Flesh and Blood because I'm not connecting with anything there and I have too many books waiting for me to spend any more time with one that doesn't move me. I know you won the Pulitzer Prize for The Hours, but I won't be reading it because I don't have a lot of hope that you've changed. And unless my tastes shift in the future, I'm afraid this is where we part ways for good. A lot of other people really seem to love your books, so I'm sure this is not about you as an author, but about me as a reader. I'm not going to bad-mouth you to random strangers in bookstores, but if asked my honest opinion of one of your books, I'm going to have to tell the truth: your novels leave me a little cold and disengaged. Michael Chabon has a new novel out next week that I am unbelievable excited about (Sherlock Holmes! Nazis!) and I think he's more what I'm looking for in a novelist. Good luck in your future literary endeavors and I'm sure I'll catch your movie adaptations on cable one of these days.

Your truly, Becky

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