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There’s a writer whose books I used to love. I devoured them the moment they came out and when I worked at the library, I always recommended them to patrons looking for a good read. They were beautifully written, but frothy enough to be great escape reading.
When his wife died several years ago, I felt sad for him. He’d dedicated most of his books to her, and when asked about that in interviews, he always came across as a loving and devoted husband. They were obviouisly one of those charmed happy couples. Still, I didn’t think that her death would affect his writing.
But it did.
The next novel he published was okay — but nothing special. It lacked the charm and the wit his previous work had showed.
So what? Every novelist is entitled to one dud.
But the next book wasn’t any better.
I have no evidence to support this theory (which is why I’m not going to name him) but I now believe that his wife had worked with him on his novels.
Probably a lot.
Now that she was gone, not only did he suffer but his books suffered too.