Dear Wags,

Nearly 15 years ago, I compiled my first list of Bad Books of the Year, which was provocative enough to get a lovely editor to hire me to write for her magazine. 

Unfortunately, a few tenderhearts deemed that venture too mean. I stopped putting the list together, but always kept it in my head. Hey, I read between 150 to 200 books annually. I can’t love them all, and I also can’t help but measure an author’s latest work against past efforts. 

The books I single out for negative attention aren’t necessarily bad. They’re just disappointing to me. (Well, some are bad. Read on for those.) So, I think calling this a Most Disappointing Books list is fair. Let it be known that I do appreciate the sweat equity that’s poured into writing even a lousy book.

I don’t want to chop down tender shoots when compiling this list. You won’t find debut authors here, or anybody humbling themselves by being vulnerable, or somebody trumpeting an important but inchoate idea. If a book winds up on my tally, it’s because the author has considerable chops and fell short. Sometimes, established stars need to change it up.

At least one book on this list may cause you to protest But I loved it! That’s grand. You don’t have to agree with my pronouncements. Books hit a diversity of readers differently. That’s the magic of them.

Maybe you’ll be so irked by my opinion of a book, you’ll go out and champion it. That couldn’t make me happier. If you have a different take, do let me know: bookwag@culturewag.com. Our interns need something to keep them from consuming all the holiday libations sent to Wag HQ. 

Meantime, I hope you’ll get a chuckle from this list, and that your lull between holidays is as relaxing as possible. Drink an extra glass of Baileys, have a second slice of pie, sleep through another viewing of Moonstruck, and catch you in 2024!

Happy New Year,

BKP

Meet My 2023 Disappointments!

10. Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver

This re-telling of David Copperfield might as well have been titled Dudley Do-Wrong for all the condescension Kingsolver showed her Appalachian protagonist. “Anybody will tell you the born of this world are marked from the get-out, win or lose,” declares Our Hero on page three. Do what now? Somehow, he’s a magical hillbilly, already wise to the game that’s screwing him over. She’s one of our best novelists, but in hewing too closely to Dickens, Kingsolver overstuffed an American class fable with stereotypes.

9. Class by Stephanie Land

The author of Maid returned with a What Happened Next memoir (Simmer down! I’m also making fun of my efforts to do the same thing). Unfortunately, sequels rarely pack the same punch as debuts. In Maid, Land delivered searing insights about how worlds of opportunity were closed off to her as a single mother with little education. In Class, she fails to consider what may have led her to repeat many of her initial mistakes. No judgment about those missteps; I just wish Land had dug down and discovered why she kept making them.

8. The Night House by Jo Nesbø

For years, I’ve been alternately devouring Nesbø’s work or avoiding it, depending on how terrifying I found his last novel. Calling out the emperor of Scandi-Noir doesn’t mean I’m condemning all of his work. Even a twisted genius writes a clunker at some point. In his latest, we get a 14-year-old bully named Richard as the narrator instead of ace sleuth Harry Hole. Then we get Richard years later, at a class reunion, during which his friends insist he wasn’t awful. Then we get an explanation that beggars belief. It doesn’t add up. Peruse the Nesbø backlist instead.

7. Traitor’s Gate by Jeffrey Archer

Crown jewels stolen, art forgeries attempted, ho to the hum. If you really want to read great British crime fiction, put those gift toward Mick Herron’s Slow Horses series, or anything by C.J. Box. Even Sir Jeffrey’s strongest stuff from the past goes down more like sherbet punch than single malt. Unfortunately, this new novel (featuring Supt. Warwick and his enemy Miles Faulkner) will give you a hangover before you’ve even developed a pleasant buzz, so boring are its conceits and so predictable its outcomes. A barrage of subplots can’t rescue the main business about a jewel heist. 

6. Central Park West by James Comey

Oh look, an anti-en-COMEY-um! Reviled by left and right, former FBI director James Comey has thrown his lot in with thriller writers. He’ll no doubt find himself reviled by them, too. His book is neither bad nor good. It’s just Comey-diocre, offering nothing from a law enforcement career that ended when he was fired by the person we are historically required to address as President Trump. Comey’s left foot, right foot plot involving a New York Assistant U.S. Attorney and a mob boss hits the correct technical notes and zero interesting ones. 

5. What About Men? By Caitlin Moran

O tempora, O Caitlin. Like so many Gen X women, I devoured Moran’s How to Be a Woman and How to Build a Girl. Her working-class, sex-forward, hilarious feminist perspective was a balm amid earnest bromides about casting off patriarchy. In this new collection, Moran attempts to redeem men through humor. Alas, we all know that complicated female love and fear of men can’t be untangled with silly girl stunts. Like, Moran gets stoned and talks to her husband’s balls. Ick.

4. The Queen by Andrew Morton

Morton shocked the world with his 1992 tell-all Diana: Her True Story, largely because the wayward princess granted him unprecedented access. Nearly two decades later, he’s become something of a monarchical mascot (writing Inside Buckingham Palace, William and Catherine: A Love Story, and Elizabeth & Margaret: The Intimate World of the Windsor Sisters, among other books). In other words, Morton is now too cozy with the royals to deliver any bombshells about the late queen. Instead, he trots out her greatest hits. Even the best of these aren’t as interesting as anecdotes given more detailed treatment in Robert Lacey’s Monarch.

3. Everywhere an Oink Oink by David Mamet

“Embittered Dave” calls himself “a reformed liberal.” Caveat Neocons: Even a diehard right-winger will wring no joy from the acclaimed playwright’s weird babble and stale yarns about Hollywood —the place he tries to skewer with his porcine title. His porky cover illustration isn’t very good, and his “wit” includes such adages as “Never trust a Jew in a bow tie” and tales of a spoiled wife who calls paper money “shoe coupons.” Ha. The only saving grace is Mamet’s love of classic films. Rely on Pauline Kael for that and skip this fatty tome.

2. The Flame by Leonard Cohen

Here’s the problem with this collection of Leonard Cohen ephemera: It’s heaven for confirmed fans of the late, great Canadian singer-songwriter. That is a perfectly valid reason to publish a book. I’m just sad that Cohen’s editor(s) didn’t help those less familiar with his work understand its roots in sacred texts, social justice, and all forms of desire. Consisting of several dozen poems, self-portraits, and notebook scribblings, The Flame feels more like a teenager’s diary than a testament to the man who wrote Suzanne and Hallelujah.

1. Here’s the Deal by Kellyanne Conway and So Help Me God by Mike Pence

The last entry on this list is a tie. How could I possibly choose between these two terrible screeds by two terrible politicos? Maybe I should award the number one slot to Pence, since he held office. Still, points must be awarded for Conway’s godawful bedazzled style. First, Conway: Is it even possible to review a book based on “alternative facts?” Second, Pence: Is it even possible to review a book by a man who calls his wife “Mother?” Conway’s angry, self-congratulatory tone makes reading her memoir a chore. Pence’s oblivious, self-congratulatory tone makes reading his memoir a bore. Do yourself a favor and break into those Robert Caro LBJ volumes.