Second bingo entry for “Not in my wheelhouse,” which is a rough category for me as I really will read pretty much anything. The best I could come up with is that I tend not to read books like this – I don’t want to call them women’s books because a) reductive, b) there’s tons of books by/for women that aren’t like this, and c) saying I don’t read books like this and then calling them women’s books smacks of “I’m not like other girls” bullshit. I guess populist books? I pretty much don’t read books available as mass market paperbacks unless they’re sci-fi or rarely fantasy.
Anyway, I needed an airport book, and this was cheap and seemed unchallenging, and good enough that I wouldn’t be sad I spent five bucks on it but not so good that I wouldn’t want to leave it in Spain and take up room in my bag. This hit all those marks. Perfect airport book. Not too good, not too bad, not too dumb, not substantial. I could tell you how it’s about the three wives of the recently deceased celebrity chef Deacon Thorpe coming to terms with his loss along with their children, but that’s beyond the point of a marshmallow book like this.
They don’t all have to be Margaret Atwood, or hell, even Liane Moriarty who does this kind of thing so much better that I don’t consider her in the same genre. Sometimes it’s just nice to read about good, flawed people getting what they want and need with a tidy little bow on the end. Hopefully the random Spaniard who comes upon this book enjoys it.