I haven't read much for pleasure for quite a while. And Gracious Host says that authors must read. I've tried, I really have.
Grandma gave me a Jeffrey Deaver. I got bogged down in what seemed like unnecessary detail. "Jimbo slurped his coffee, put it down, sighed, pushed his seat back, rose from his chair, turned and with a steady stride, walked to the corner of his desk, around it, and straight across the bay to his partner's desk. He had something to say." Argh, maybe I'm just not in the right mood. Just put the damn coffee down and go talk to your partner. I couldn't take the time to see how the plot developed. I could see it emerging, but just ever so slowly.
She gave me a David Baldacci. Ah, international thriller. The characters were so stereotyped, it was like he cut-and-pasted them out of a In Like Flint script, but without the humor. Again, not the right mood.
James Patterson. Oh, here's a guy who tells me on Facebook that he can teach me to write! I made it through 20 pages of cultural references that were slathered over what might seemed like an interesting storyline, but I couldn't take the constant references to things I don't care about in real life. Book sailed away. Grandma told me that she thought the book was one that his business might've churned out rather than him doing all the work. I dunno.
Finally, Michael Connelly. The Lincoln Lawyer. Halfway through and it's a good read. I'm sticking with it.
Who knows where individual tastes will run. I'm suspecting that writing and critiquing my own stuff is having an effect, and not a great one, on how I enjoy others.