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I've been reading a lot of Harlan Coben recently, since I just discovered this thriller writer who's apparently been around like twenty years.
I wanted to read the first book in the Myron Bolitar series since I loved number eleven so much (see Home). Unfortunately, I messed up and read this one, which is number TWO in the series. I'm very annoyed with myself.
This book, first published in 1996, was pretty good. It was a little slow in the middle, but it had a good ending. Still, compared to Coben's more recent novels it pales. I guess he's been improving his skills. That's how it's supposed to work, right?
In 1996 I also started a novel. (Plus I had my first baby; but I digress.) That story, and many others since, has remained unfinished, although I have actually completed a few. So in the past twenty years, while I was dabbling in writing (and motherhood), our pal Harlan Coben was churning out books at the rate of more than one a year. That's probably why my writing still kind of stinks and his is awesome.
Yeah, I turned this book review into a story about myself. So sue me.
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