A middle-aged woman goes on a road trip, but immediately stops in a nearby town. How crazy does a person have to be to hire an interior designer for her motel room for $20,000?
A middle-aged artist writes a book about a middle-aged artist. So should we assume that this is auto-fiction or an autobiography? I don't understand people's desire to write about themselves.
You can write about sex beautifully and arousingly, but the sex scenes in this book just made me nauseated. And I'm not even the only one who feels this way.
What was the purpose and point of this whole story? I guess I'm too stupid to understand it. At least there is no proper ending or resolution in the book. I read to the end in vain.
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