In which I am the World's Best Wife.

So, Will reads a lot. I mean, A LOT. For work. And then when he is done reading for work, he reads for pleasure. IT IS A SICKNESS, PEOPLE. He reads and he reads and he reads AND HE STILL HAS 20/20 VISION.

To say that he's been under a bit of pressure at work lately would be the biggest understatement since, well, a really big understatement made sometime before now. So when he agreed to read a novel that a work-friend of his has optioned, I suggested that I read it for him and let him know how it is.

By the first sentence I knew it was bad.

By page six I hated it more than I have ever hated any book, anyone, seriously ANYTHING ON EARTH. I called Will to tell him that it was the schmaltziest, the worst, the most poorly written book in the history of time. He told me that he'd promised and so was going to read it anyway.

Any normal person would have set the book on fire and then feigned innocence when Will asked where it was.

Do you know what I did?

I read it. Every page. It burned my eyes and killed a large portion of my soul, but I read it. And when I was done, I wrote a detailed synopsis and notes on just how bad it is and why, so that Will would never have to open the book.

And that, dear readers, is love.

P.S. Just in case it is true that any press is good press, I am not going to name the book here. However, I do not wish for any of my readers to be subjected to its unbelievable badness. So please, if you think you might accidentally read it, drop me a quick email and I will give you the details so you can avoid it.