3.5/5 Stars. Well, this was different, and a bit strange, but still, I enjoyed most of it. It was supposed to be humorous, but I found it to be more sad than funny. Obviously most writers believe that everything they've written is a masterpiece. That they'd decide that writing is an addiction, a habit they need to kick, was amusing.
NFM. The writing is staccato: "We could grab a coffee if you have time. Lola has time." Elsewhere: "You wear high heels a lot. Virginie Mazette admits it."
To be fair, many Parisians do communicate this way, a bit in shorthand. But that would be in person, and requires a shared viewpoint. So much of this is written in an exasperated, put-upon tone. It does not make for 'rich' reading.
A series of vignettes, it unravels like an existential play (that goes on for 200+ pages!) It reads very flat, peppered with bits that are indignant, self-pitying, haughty.
This is advertised as satire about wannabe authors and publishing, yet it reads as self-absorbed.
The book opens with a death, related in such a way as to communicate to the reader that the who and why were not to be of much interest, as it is merely an administrative blip for the characters present.
This might appeal to readers not looking for a 'story' as such, but who enjoy the slow reveal of basic character traits from snippets of evidence and isolated clues.
Wordsmiths will find endless material to tickle the brain. "The characters of her novel accompany her in her wanderings, a dishevelled [sic] cohort of uncertain consistency." (p. 109) "It's a lovely sampling of effervescent, scribbling humanity." (p. 45)
The cover art is enticing too, but the contents do not live up to the drama and depth it suggests.
For anyone interested in the publishing world or books in general, this should be worth reading. A tale of stressed-out publishers and rejected authors, it's a satirical look at the bookish world through the eyes of an insider. A bit of a slog at times, to be honest, but overall I enjoyed it. 3.5 stars.