Rosamunde Pilcher

Hatmaker writes well but is heavy on the religious straitjacket she was raised in and thin on the actual OTHER PERSON in this scenario - her husband. He is barely there, only quoted once, and a complete cypher. There is no flesh-and-blood to the man. NONE, and that's a major pitfall in a book about divorce. She could've been married to Jimminy Cricket for all we get. Either the editors fell asleep at the wheel or Hatmaker had promised her husband not to reveal anything solid. It seems to have been a deliberate effort at voiding the meat of the relationship and we're left with a one-sided, vague stew of this memoir.

ICK. From beginning to end, I only wish the protagonist would grow up.