I hold in high regard, the variance of output Steve Martin produces. He's a fascinating character who has been around, making himself known in trademark guises for decades now. As comedic actor, he's iconic; as a writer he's good at weaving cozy webs around sensitive, struggling characters.

In 1990's Shopgirl Martin sculpts Vermont transplant, and glove counter ingenue, Mirabelle Buttersfield, into a compelling LA heroine. Three years later in 1993The Pleasure of My Company follows the lonely and lost crusade, this time with Daniel Pecan Cambridge--an unemployed OCD homebody, obsessed romantically with both his: in-home therapist, and a real estate agent he admires sporadically from his window.

The premise of the sweet shut-in works, in that it's tough to read The Pleasure of My Company without borrowing the voice of the whimsical Steve Martin, himself, to narrate--hence lending a portal of accessibility to the entertainer's own persona. This is perhaps why risks weren't a factor in the protagonist's life, which was free from controversy, darkness, or vices.

For all of Daniel Pecan Cambridge's issues keeping him from stepping on curbs or asking women on dates, he seemed nice, smart, helpful and honest. And aside from mild bouts of death, violence and rejection, good things happen to him throughout the story, which is nice.