I stopped listening to another purely awful romance. (no names, even if she is one of the famous people who couldn't care less what a blogger thinks of 'em) I realized the only reason I'd lasted as long as I had was the reader.
He's an Englishman (or just does the accent well) and seems to love the stuff he's reading--and almost makes the recycled, tired garbage of a book worth the time. Almost. He can manage the most drealy lines or the hottest scenes with gusto. And his female voices are great. **
I kept wondering what he thought of the dreck he read so happily. I started listening for signs of a curled lip or scorn. Nope, he sounded thoroughly involved. Totally into one of the stupidest stories ever--and not just mind-dulling plot makes me cringe but the purple prose. Yeah. Also. WTF? Did she really just say that about the dude's love-weapon?
Readers like that give me new respect for good actors. They can do that stuff with a straight face. They face the crap bravely--full speed ahead--which means you don't even get the chance to be embarrassed for them. Or maybe they buy into the dreck. And that's fine too, though not such admirable bravery. Whichever way they approach the crapola, the readers provide the generous gift of talent for a work that doesn't deserve it.
**Michael Page. I looked him up. Not quite Simon Jones or Phyllida Nash but pretty good.