Wanting to read some fluff the other day, I picked up Warrener's Beastie, which is a beast of a book in length, but easy to read.  Something gnawed at me while I read it, the same feeling that annoyed me when reading Ahab's Wife, which I never bothered to finish.  After thinking about it throughout this evening, it finally stuck me what bothered me about the two books: the author was ever-present.  It's a book, you may say, the author wrote it.  Oh, no--it isn't about the author's experiences or details from his/her life, but the feeling that their thoughts and ideas are made embodied in every character.  To some degree, they are too perfect, they speak with too much awareness, they don't particularly resemble the mildly selfish flesh-and-blood humans we actually interact with daily.  Instead, they are little authors running around spouting anachronistic modern rubbish, all working towards helping the main character along the path of the plot, which might very well be interesting in and of itself, but if I can't stomach the bland characters, I'll never find out about it.  I might just take some mental alka-seltzer and give it another go, just to see if it gets better, but there's only so much I can take plus so many other good books to read.

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