I have read less in the last year than in any other month in my life. Really.
However, I did read the latest Anita Blake novel, Incubus Dreams, this weekend.
The good news: It’s much larger than any other book in the series. And it truly belongs on the “poly novels” shelf now.
The bad news: There’s still more sex than plot.
There was a little plot—but she didn’t resolve it! When I was four pages from the end and realized that we weren’t even going to SEE the real villain in this book, I wanted to toss it across the room.
No, the real “plot” is all about Anita’s relationships. She’s the triad girl, always involved in threesomes. At least she’s coming to grips with that fact, but—GAH!
I don’t read romance novels. I don’t care about other people’s relationships enough to read paragraph after paragraph of them being all weepy or ecstatic or whatever about their SOs. I’ve got plenty of relationship stuff of my own, thank you very much.
I don’t read erotica. The most incredible writer of sexy stuff that I’ve ever encountered is in bed with me every night. Why bother to buy generic stuff, when he’ll craft something just for me?
Supposedly, we read fiction to get what we don’t have in our own lives. I can’t run around, solve mysteries, and kill bad guys. I want that kind of stuff in the fiction I read. I want to read about heroes doing astonishing things, whether I’m reading science fiction, fantasy, or mystery novels. I want heroes I can believe in, who aren’t too perfect.
Anita has gained so many powers that all the “powers that be” in her universe should have banded together to destroy her by now. Stories are too boring when the protagonists have no real challenges. (Remembering to use a condom on in the midst of metaphysical fucking is NOT a challenge that belongs in a plot, okay?)
