Saturn Split

Alan Glazen

Ouch, This book is described on the back as a work by “Cleveland's own Woody Allen.” That sent up one red flag. Then I realized the blurb was written by Plain-Dealer columnist/hack Michael Heaton, who himself can't write his way out of a paper bag. Up went red flag two. But lacking a third strike, I delved into this short novel which is about the same subject Woody Allen too often covers—absolutely nothing.

Which is not a bad thing if your characters are engaging or you have the proper writing style to carry off a novel about nothing. Glazen has neither. His characters are quirky-by-phone-book (in other words, you've seen this kind of quirky a million times before), the writing plods along unevenly like a mule with a limp, and when an author hasn't even hinted at the main focus of his book (one assumes it is the main focus, and that the publisher didn't switch synopses for two novels) by page sixty-five, you can pretty much be sure there's not much there to work with. This novel is the literary equivalent of the guy sitting next to you on the bus who refuses to shut up, but has not a single interesting story to tell.