two writers swap genres, I'm in

the premise is exactly my sort of nonsense: two writers in neighbouring beach houses, one does literary misery and one does romance, and they bet that each can write the other's thing. and to be fair Henry actually does something with it, because the joke isn't that romance is silly, it's that both of them are hiding behind a genre.

January is funny in a way I honestly wasn't expecting. the running commentary going on in her head is sharp and I highlighted about six lines, which is six more than I normally manage.

but there's a whole strand about her dad and his secret second life that I did not want and did not ask for, and the book keeps putting it between me and the bit I turned up for. every time they got somewhere good: dad. and the cult research subplot is an awful lot of book to spend on something that resolves as quietly as it does.

also they take FOREVER, which is the genre and I knew what I was signing up for, but somewhere around three quarters through I said "just talk to each other" out loud and woke the dog up.

seven. I read it in the garden over two days last August with my legs going pink because I lost track of the time entirely, which is the correct way to do this one.