Joy Fielding is like Mary Higgins Clark in this respect:  if you’ve read one of her books, you’ve more or less read them all; nevertheless, I read them all.  There is something oddly comforting about their predictability.  Not all of Fielding’s books are thrillers; several are just straight-out melodramas, some of which have been made into Lifetime television movies, I’m sure–or if they haven’t, they ought to be.

Anyway, regardless of what genre Fielding is writing in, here is the book she writes time and again:  A middle-aged woman with two teenage daughters is divorced from their father, a very successful lawyer who left her for another woman.  The ex-husband is a total jerk; the other woman is a bimbo.  Our heroine, the middle-aged woman with two teenage daughters, does not have to work because she got a great deal in the divorce settlement, and it’s a good thing because she married very young and never had the chance to pursue higher education or a career in any meaningful way, though she’s certainly intelligent.  Not so intelligent that she could avoid marrying a complete a**hole, but intelligent enough to know that when mysterious things start happening in the neighborhood, something is up.  Her friends and her family members think she’s overreacting and just needs to get over her ex because seriously, it’s been seven years and isn’t it about time she found herself another man?  They know someone who would be perfect for her.  But I digress.

Our heroine is NOT overreacting.  Something IS up.  She doesn’t know what, exactly, and she knows she sounds completely crazy, that she’s not acting like a sane, reasonable person, but she’s been under a lot of stress lately.  One of her daughters is giving her grief.  Her ex is no help and that bimbo wife of his is always rubbing stuff in her face.   She hasn’t had sex in three years (at least).  Her boobs are sagging.  She hasn’t been sleeping well and she has these crazy, vivid dreams that are very disturbing.  (She also sleeps in the nude a lot, which isn’t really pertinent, but I thought you might find it interesting all the same.)  Not to mention all the weird crap that’s been going on in the neighborhood that she just knows is not a coincidence but something really sinister at work (or is it play? hard to tell).

She gets laid.  The weird crap turns out to be something really sinister after all.  She is vindicated.  There is hope of a better future for her.  The end.

So even though I’ve read all of Fielding’s books before, I thought I hadn’t read this specific one:  Lost .  The synopsis on the inside sleeve didn’t seem familiar.  (I know how ludicrous that sounds, but just bear with me.)  So I started reading it, and suddenly it did seem really familiar.  I know, I know, but I’m talking really familiar–too familiar.  And yet I could not remember for the life of me how the heroine got vindicated in this one, so I thought maybe it was just my imagination–or, you know, the fact that I’ve read any of her other books–and so I kept reading.

Well, after a few chapters it became apparent through various details–detailed details–that I had indeed read this book before.  I couldn’t remember what happened–other than the getting laid and vindicated parts–and it was driving me nuts, so I skimmed through the rest and it all came back to me.  What didn’t come back to me was why I read the whole thing the first time because I have to tell you, kids, this book was awful.  Yes, even by my standards.  Sure, the plot was formulaic and flimsy, but all of that would have been fine if it hadn’t been for the main character, who I know I have met before–many, many times–but this time I actually wished that she were a real person SO I COULD PUNCH HER IN THE FACE REPEATEDLY.  Yes, I know your daughter is missing, I know your ex-husband is an a**hole, I know your neighbors are acting weird, the dog’s peeing on your carpet, your butt isn’t as firm as you’d like it to be, but do you really need to correct everyone’s grammar ALL THE TIME?  Really?  Not that that’s your biggest fault, but it’s so opposite-of-endearing and so representative of someone who is always whining and overreacting to crap that I just don’t care if you ever get your daughter back or the dog-urine stains out of your carpet, and that is the real problem here.  Unfortunately, it’s a serious one.

And that’s all I have to say about Joy Fielding’s Lost.

(Another edition of Mad’s Book Club is in the works and will probably appear tomorrow.  Well, it will definitely appear tomorrow, unless I break both my arms or lose internet access or something equally tragic.  Don’t get too excited, as all of the books are about serial killers or fighting kitties.  If that ain’t your cuppa, you can feel free not to come back tomorrow.  I mean, you’re always free not to come back, but if you specifically stay away tomorrow, I won’t be offended.  Anyway, that’s not the point.  The point is that I’ve read all these books in the last four weeks or so and there are a lot to talk about, even if there isn’t much to say about them–not that that’s ever stopped me–but this one wasn’t in keeping with the serial killer/fighting kitty theme, so I decided to talk about it here instead of there–or now instead of then–sort of a sneak preview of the inanity to come.)