What is a bad book?

Over the Easter holidays, I read two books. Actually, I read more than that, but these two stood out for several reasons.

First of all, they were “real” books, rather than eBooks which is my usual fare. One was a Christmas gift and the other I bought myself on a rare visit to a bookshop. I do love my Kindle, but there is something wonderful about the printed page that fills me with a deep satisfaction. I admit. I am a book sniffer. In fact, I should probably confess to being a complete stationery addict while I’m being honest. Books, pens, notebooks, sticky notes – I’m getting warm just thinking of it all.

The fact that a book from a shop had been refined and published automatically elevates them in my mind somehow. Having gone through the disappointment of countless rejections and having heard of the angst of those who eventually get an agent, I can appreciate the difficult process of finally seeing your precious manuscript on the hallowed shelves of Waterstone’s. Knowing the exacting standards of the industry, I have high expectations as I turn to the first page.

The second reason was they were two very different genres. One was a YA sci-fi novel, the other a murder mystery. I like a wide variety of books, but I lean more towards fantasy and romantic fiction in my usual diet, so it was nice to taste something a bit different.

The final reason these particular books stood out was because one was perfectly crafted, witty, entertaining and thoroughly enjoyable. The other was boring, awful, rubbish. Now, I know you are desperate to know what these books were.

Richard Osman’s “The Thursday Murder Club” is an absolute delight. If you haven’t read it yet, you really must. It is a beautiful example of a well-paced novel with unforgettable characters who make you laugh and cry as they decide to solve a murder committed near their retirement village. I’m usually pretty good at solving these things, but despite my sleuthing best, I really didn’t have a clue. My poor husband had to suffer my constant giggling and interruptions of his time as I read out excerpts from it.

In contrast “Ready Player Two” by Ernest Cline is a follow up to his highly successful first novel. Unfortunately, this is just regurgitated trash. The plot is virtually identical, the characters awful and the ending a trial. I actually can’t think of anything good to say about it. It bored me from the first few pages, and I ended up skipping huge chucks of mindless trivia. Is anyone really interested in the life and works of Prince? He had used up all the best pop culture references in the first book. This was digging through the reject pile and coming up with the worst of the worst.

“Ready Player Two” is everything a book shouldn’t be, which begs the question, why would any reputable publisher tout such a dreadful story? Of course, the answer is money. Sadly, the publishing industry don’t care if it’s a good story told well. They just want to sell it. “Ready Player One” sold millions after a bidding war and was made into a hugely successful film by Steven Spielberg. I was interested to see that he was also mentioned in the acknowledgements as being a significant contributor to this book’s development. Which is probably why the novel is a problem. Spielberg makes films. His ideas will likely look great on the big screen, but they don’t work in writing.

I read books like that and can hold my head up with pride. I know that my stories are more engaging and my writing of a high standard, even though I haven’t reached the giddy heights they have. Am I envious? Probably. Who wouldn’t dream of a fabulous book deal, being published in fifty countries, and sitting in a cinema knowing that millions are watching the fantasies of your imagination being played out on the big screen. I take my hat off to Cline, along with EL James and any others who have managed to break through the publishing stranglehold and make a mint with a paltry offering. Well done.

Let’s face it: most writers will never earn more than a few pounds unless they have a lucky break. I was told to keep plugging away, and self-publish, because there are people out there in the world who would love to read my work, and I should write my stories for them regardless of the monetary rewards. (Thank-you, whoever you are!)

Is it wrong of me to dream that Steven Spielberg might end up being one of them?