I bought this one day in Guildford while I was living in Great Bookham, and becoming increasingly bored of being on vacation. I read it in a day, and compulsively needed to know what happened next. I bought the next two books the next day, and by the end of the day after, I was physically exhausted, uncomfortable from all those hours of reading, unsure whether I'd actually liked the books, but in no doubt that the author could construct a powerfully compelling tale.
Alien Earth, by Megan Lindholm
This book came to me as part of an MST3K-like sequence of commentators. I need to finish writing irreverent commentary in the margins and pass it on to someone else. Unfortunately, it's dull, uninteresting, and unengaging. I don't care about the characters. I gave up months ago out of boredom. It's a book I need to get over with at some point, just so its travels may continue.
Atlanta Nights, by Travis Tea
Mr. Tea represents a large group of authors each of whom tried very hard indeed to write horrendously bad prose, and then edit it down to be even worse. It's hilariously bad, worth reading for all of the wrong reasons.
What do these three books have in common?
Robin Hobb wrote all or part of all three. Robin Hobb IS Megan Lindholm (and both are pseudonyms). I suddenly made the connection with Alien Earth this afternoon, seeing it lying on the bookshelf. I'd forgotten who'd written it, but the name was suddenly ever so familiar from reading through the list of known authors of parts of Atlanta Nights. My head's spinning. The author of one of the most compelling books I've ever read also wrote one of the dullest pieces of drivel I've ever set eyes on.