There was no possible way that I could go from reading Jacqueline Carey to another author without comparing the two. I very much wanted to immediately jump into Laurell K Hamilton's Blood Noir, but since I don't own it and it's mere days before my birthday, Cody's forbidden me from purchasing anything for myself. Short of going to Borders and reading it in the store (in hiding, and lying to Cody regarding my whereabouts), I've been reading something else.
That something else I won't name. There's no point in it. It's plain not good. The writing, oh, the writing. To have fallen from Carey to this. This telling not showing book, where the characters do things like (paraphrasing): "something in her sensed Zach was following her" when Zach is actually walking right behind her, and like a normal person, she could hear him, or "it was incredibly complex and simple at once" said about everything from an emotion to the sunrise, without further explanation. And how many times can fear/lust/excitement/joy lance through a person? Surely there are better ways to say it.
Obviously, this isn't a repeat author for me. And this isn't a debut author, either. She has nearly a dozen published novels on the shelves. However, she'll serve as a good warning of what not to do.
Oh, all-knowing Unvierse, when will the next Carey novel be out to save us from this mediocrity?
(I just checked, rather than continuing to whine to my computer. I have a mere couple of weeks to wait for the next Kushiel installment, but she's also released a stand-alone werewolf/superhero novel. I'm intrigued.)