This is supposedly a novel where life imitates art. I just wonder about calling it that as it is a rather obscure quote – from Oscar Wilde, who gave as his opinion, in his 1889 essay The Decay of Lying that, “Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life”.
But the story did not live up to this quote.
It is a ‘cozy’ and I found rather reptitive and slow. The sentences were very precise – somehow too precise as it means that the story moved very slowly with out the use of emotional adjectives or humour.
Although the storyline is about an author who writes racy novels – this novel was far from racy – indeed it was staid.
I failed to get invested in the heroine and her life.