I am writing my first blog entry from my iPad. Why? Well, though I really hate typing on this thing (takes me back to the “hunt and peck” days with my first IBM Selectric—if you don’t know what that is, I’m not telling), it’s all I can muster.

Suffice to say I am in bed, comfortable, and not willing to get up and walk to the office.

We’ll see how long this charade can last.

So I finished another book this weekend. Well, this is to say after about 250 pages of nothing very new happening, I skimmed the rest.

Normally this disappointment wouldn’t be worthy of a blog post, but this is a book that’s been (over) hyped this summer all the way to the best-seller list (and if the author is to be trusted as a source, an eminent movie deal).

The book I am referencing is “Before I Go To Sleep”, by S.J. Watson. If you’ve been paying attention this summer, you’ve likely heard about this book. See, I don’t actually make a habit of paying all that much attention (bad habit, or rather a lack of good ones) and I couldn’t log into Facebook without virtually tripping over the comments regarding BIGTS.

Watson obviously did an outstanding job of marketing; one ploy was releasing another “free” chapter every thousand likes on the BIGTS Facebook page (the count on which is up over 8,000…if the fans keep joining, they’re all getting ridiculously close to receiving a chapter that actually advances the plot; I’d say about another 5-6000 “Likes” ought to do it).

Watson also had fun little daily survey questions like “Who should play Ben in the movie?”.

I know a few other authors who have marketed their way to the top. In fact, I believe that’s what most authors are trying to do, and it makes a ton of sense.

But here’s the rub: Watson’s book sucks.

I truly hate to say that, and I’m sure there are a slew of readers who will disagree, but I was at almost 80% on my Kindle before something freaking HAPPENED. The premise is an interesting (if not a bit overdone) one: a woman with memory problems—a wife who cannot retain the previous day’s memories (or any long term memory at all) upon waking each morning—struggles to figure out who she is, what exactly happened to her, and perhaps most importantly, who she can trust.

Fair enough.

But then that plot line replays for 80% of the book! The first few times she wakes up and has to reread her journal to remember who she is and what happened, it’s mildly interesting. (NOTE: nothing ever happens to her other than remembering who she is, who her husband is, and who her doctor is). After this going on for a few hundred pages, it’s time for the hangman’s noose.

Then, after all that monotony, I thought “after reading all the hype, something really crazy is going to happen”…at least the last 20% should knock my socks off, right? Nah. Anyone who couldn’t figure out the “twist” by then needs to put away the sedatives.

The point of all this is not to slam S.J. Watson’s book, but rather to wonder where marketing takes a funny, almost dishonest turn. One of the greatest challenges for talented first-time authors (or even talented fourth time writers) is to get their work READ. To build a readership. Trust me, I get it. But do we go too far with false advertising? Artificially boosting numbers of readers, reviews, “Likes”, etc. for strong work that needs an audience seems a necessary ethical breach, and a rather small one. But driving a snoozer to bestseller by over-selling its merit, while excellent for the author (and, BTW, hats off to Watson for succeeding in the business model sense of the word) seems counterproductive to the works of better (unknown) authors without, perhaps, the time, resources, or ability to market like the pros.

Here’s another thing that bothered me about this marketing juggernaut—something that made all the difference to me: Dennis Lehane lent a sterling review comment that was milked for every last syllable:

“Exceptional…it left my nerves jangling for hours after I read the last page.”

Really, Dennis? Something here is amiss. Lehane is either friends with Watson or works for the same publisher or agent. I know not which, but I can attest to the reality that there is NOTHING in this novel to make your nerves jangle (unless it is the futile frustration that you will never get those hours back again).

For those who loved the book, I apologize. I am sorry you require so little from a storyline. Really. Let’s have a book discussion, okay? Show me where anything at all happens from page one to 200+. Nothing does. Write new things in the journal, question your husband’s honesty, question what really happened to you, talk these things over with your doctor. Rinse. Repeat.

Then, with less than 20% to go, figure out what we all pretty much knew all along. Not frightening, not harrowing, not all that surprising. Certainly nothing over which to jangle any nerves.

So I suppose this did become more of a book review.

I give it:

★ ★ ☆ ☆ ☆

(One star is for Watson’s actual writing ability, which isn’t shabby. The other is kudos for being a master marketer. Yes, I almost took the second one away.)

If you disagree, well, that’s the beauty of living in the free world. You can sue me. But you’d be better off suing Watson, Lehane, or the marketing professionals who built the house of cards from which S.J. Watson will now write myriad bestsellers—the charge: false advertising.

P.S. If you think I am slamming Watson’s virginal effort out of some kind of misplaced jealousy, I’m not like that when it comes to writing. I am my own biggest critic, and I love finding authors who push my envelope. Case in point: I read half of “Indignation” by Philip Roth last night in one sitting. Philip Roth is not over-hyped. The man is lyrical. I devour Jonathan Lethem; he is, in this writer’s opinion, one of the true genius writers of fiction in this century. Thom Jones, Harry Crews, Elie Wiesel, Annie Proulx, Tim O’Brien, Sherman Alexie, Denis Johnson, Cormac McCarthy. Geniuses. Magicians of the pen. Literary lyricists; beyond praiseworthy and each one of them a writer I will work hard the rest of my life to—if I am blessed enough—reach one quarter the talent of. So, no, this is not about “he’s better than I so my critic’s wrath he begets”. Not at all. I wanted to love the book. Too bad the book did not have the same feelings for me.

P.P.S. In case you were wondering, I gave up on the iPad halfway through. Not my finest hour.

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The blank page is dead…long live the blank page.