Note to Julia Glass

Julia, sweetie, we need to talk.

You write sentences like this:

Paul chose Greece for its predictable whiteness: the blanching heat by day, the rush of stars at night, the glint of the lime-washed houses crowding its coast.

Meg Wolitzer writes sentences like this:

The book was placed on a high shelf in the den, as though it were the only copy in the world and if the children didn't find it they would be forever unaware of the sexual lives of their parents, forever ignorant of the press of hot skin, the overlapping voices, the stir and scrape of the brass headboard as it lightly battered the plaster, creating twin finial-shaped depressions over the years in the wall of the bedroom in which the parents slept, or didn't sleep, depending on the night.

So, honey, the blurb you wrote for Meg?

The most moving, enthralling, shamelessly perceptive new novel I've read in years.

Could you just take it back and we'll all go on with our lives?

[Those would be, respectively, the first lines of Three Junes, one of the best books I've read this century, and The Position, one of the most annoying books I've skimmed this century.]