I read another romance book, "Goodness Had Nothing To Do With It" by Lucy Monroe. Books like these convince me more and more that anyone--be it me, Rama, E, anyone else here who writes, or a typing monkey for that matter--has hope of getting a book published.** Stop now to avoid mini-rant:
It starts off pretty damn decently and as it progressed, that's when I looked at my scroll bar and realized there was too much of it left that it wasn't gonna be able to keep that pace up. This thing just fell apart. I would've cut this story off halfway and sold it to Harlequin. Or, if I really had to go along with the 20 freaking chapters (NOTE: Harlequins are notoriously short and linger from 10 to 15 chapters at most), I would've expanded on the mystery of the corporate spy subplot. The author introduces us to several potential spys at length, which would've been great if this were a mystery of some kind but I guess we were just supposed to care about these people enough to want to read about their boring bullshit. Romances shouldn't have anyone besides the people neccessary for the story, so this annoyed me. I would've even forgiven the typical eye-roll inducing foibles if this had been shorter and the extra people had been cut out. Instead, Monroe pumps the story full of useless people, a mystery in which the most obvious person did it, another romance that is totally cheesy and has nothing to do with shit, drags "the chase and capture" out longer than she needed to, and gives us this freaking long ending filled with Noah Pairings--a book/movie/show/etc in which every fucking character has to have a mate like it's gonna rain for 40 days. Even worse, this book is actually a sequel to another romance and that couple and this one have babies the same age of opposite genders who play with each other and I'm sure will be married in an equally meandering sequel or some shit.
** But then again, I suppose one only has to look at Twilight.
