Dear John Irving,
Your latest novel, Until I Find You is a complete bore, and I couldn’t take it any longer.
1. Disbelief, not suspended. A four-year-old just doesn’t have thoughts like the one who is, unfortunately, the main character of this endless tome.
2. Plot…Is there one? Um, by page 100, not a darned thing has happened. I just need something here. It doesn’t have to be a lot. Really, anything resembling a plot would be good. I can’t be dragged to another freaking Scandinavian country’s hotel room and meet another character who will only last a page or two. And I can’t read about any more tattoos without hope of something happening. In the words of Dr. Evil: Throw me a freakin’ bone here.
3. Knowing that there were 700 pages to go made reading any further absolutely unbearable. Speaking of which, Where Oh Where was your editor on this one? The dialogue is flat, the description endless, the book, endless.
It’s with great regret that I feel this strongly about your latest novel, as I have in the past been a huge fan and in awe of the complexity of your work. But alas, on this one, I have given up.