Last night, as I was tried to fall asleep, I was distracted. I was, I realized, irate. I’d just stayed up past my bedtime reading a book by an author whose books I have loved. This one, well, I wouldn’t say I hated it but I just about did.

Now reading books I don’t like is a part of my job. Normally poorly written books do not make angry–I simply toss them aside and move on. But this book, this book ticked me off. It wasn’t just that the power imbalance between the lovers was appallingly vast nor that the hero is, for most a the book, a sh*t. I’ve read many a romance where these plotlines have made for a brilliant read. Nor was it that the writing and story was pedestrian, even cloying. Again, been there, read that.

Why, I wondered, was I so bothered by this book? It is, of course, because I know this author can do better. They have done better several times. They even written books I’d designate as sublime. In reading this book, I became like the vast majority of teachers I had, all of whom dutifully wrote on my report cards, “Dabney is clearly not working up to her abilities.”

So, yes, I am harder on authors who have earlier written great books and now are writing just OK or, like this one, bad books. I want better which, perhaps, isn’t fair. Shouldn’t we take every book on its own merits?

What do you think? Are you harder on weak books by great authors than you are on mediocre works by those you have no expectations of?