I've Had Enough

I read serial mystery novels, particularly when stressed. After a family member died a couple of years ago and my eldercare duties increased for two other relatives, I read all nineteen of the Amelia Peabody books. I recently got started on a similar mystery couple series set in the nineteenth century, one that was recommended by Goodreads. It wasn't terrific, but I could get it pretty cheaply as an e-book, so I plugged away. I've just finished the fifth and, so far, final book. I can't imagine bringing myself to read more of them, anyway.

The fan fiction elements of these books became stronger with each new volume, and with the fifth one the main character might as well have been named Mary Sue. Her husband was a tortured, dark hero who could do absolutely everything, was stunning to look at, and was determined to save his darling wife from herself because though she was over the age of thirty she was just so impetuous. He was also constantly having to control his violent nature, gnashing and gritting his teeth and threatening to beat his beloved or lock her up.

Because, you know, violence is just such a turn on.

The female character just loved this stuff and could pretty much do everything, also, including whine.

Perfect characters (if you want to call these two perfect) lusting after one another is, for me, the major hallmark of fan fiction. In this case, these books read as if they were written by a fan of this genre, creating a woman standin for readers who like the idea of fighting with Heathcliff.

In this final book, the two main characters made me think of a nineteenth century aristocratic version of Lucy and Desi. "Desi, why can't I work at the club?" "Why can't I help with your investigations?" "What have you been up to, Lucy?" "What have you been up to, wife?"

Really, I have to find another series for the next time I'm stressed.