Mr. Irving, it's not you, it's me.

I love John Irving. But do I love him enough to continue suffering through "A Widow for One Year"? I just don't know.

I'm about halfway through the 1998 novel about Ruth Cole and her screwed up family. The writing nearly gave me a migraine yesterday. The narrator jumps between the past, present and future in just about every train of thought that I don't know where the hell we are half the time.

I'm criticizing John Irving? I know, I'm totally. fricking. out. of. my. mind.

I of course loved the World According to Garp and A Prayer for Owen Meany and well I really liked the Cider House Rules movie. I consider him one of my lifetime's true great storytellers. Like Tom Wolf, Michael Chabon and T.C. Boyle. They weave together these amazing characters and plots layered upon plots until they peak and you're sitting there feeling high from it and thinking how did he do that????? I know that's really dorky, but I know you know what I mean.

A Widow for One Year was a bestseller. No doubt. But is that because it came from the person who wrote this?:

"... it was what a summer wedding should be -- sultry, something momentarily pretty, giving way to a heat that is unrestrained. Uncle Alfred showed off for me and my cousins by chugging beer. A stray beagle, belonging to some new people on Pine Street, made off with some of the cupcakes from the coffee and dessert table. Mr. Meany, standing so stiffly in-waiting at the receiving line that he appeared to have granite in his pockets, blushed when it was his turn to kiss the bride."

Genius.

So I've read, and I say that because I was born in the late '70s, that the World According to Garp was the book to be read in the '70s and '80s. In 1998 one critic said a Widow for One Year could possibly be the book to be read in the '90s. Bridget Jones's Diary came out in 1998 and Angela's Ashes in 1996. So, that critic could be right.

I stopped reading today when I did because I wanted to check out some reviews of a Widow for One Year. I wanted to see if anybody who knows anything had experienced the same thing. I was hoping I'd find a review that said: Mr. Irving hits his stride in the second half of the book. I did not find that. All I found was praise for it.

I think this is a case of It's not you, it's me. Maybe I am just not in the mood for a novel about love and loss. Shame on me, the title was a dead give away.

I also think that maybe you just need a break from what you're reading sometimes. Because in the last few hours I've found myself wondering about Ruth Cole.

I'll let you know what happens.