I’m thinking about joining the ranks of those boring, jackassy literary pundits who warn about the impending death of something: publishing, the novel, the short story, the traditional book, and everything else you love hold dear.

What am I declaring the death of? Story. Or at least good, engaging stories. Off the top of my head I can think of four books I’ve read this year that were well-written but lacked interesting stories or the stories fell apart midway through the book (The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, The Melting Season, The Girl Who Fell From the Sky, and The Ask). I can’t tell if it’s me or if it’s them. Is there a dearth of story in this year’s must-read books? Or am I just more demanding than usual?

You can add Jenny Hollowell’s Everything Lovely, Effortless, Safe to that list of beautifully-written books that lack an actual story. On the surface the story of Birdie Baker, a thirty-year-old struggling actress seems like it would be fraught with tension, but it’s not. Instead we get a sort of dreamy, wishy-washy portrayal of a woman so far removed from her life it feels like she’s floating through it.

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