I'm listening to The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake and enjoying it, but I enjoyed it more before I looked up the author and discovered all the prizes and whatnot she got.
Maybe it's a case of being left out of the party, but I frequently get a sense of "what am I missing here?" when I discover that an author is hailed as somehow super-uber-author. Same thing happened with the Olive Kitteridge book. I don't get what sets that writing apart. The word choices? The book structure? The sense of despair? How readers respond to the whole package of writing/plot/characterization? Yo, in case I haven't made my POV clear, the books don't shift my view of the universe, or make me see life in a transformed way. They're good, but I wouldn't call them Holy Fuck, that's Some Literature for The Ages good.
Maybe I should take more classes in this writing gig--by the time I was done with art school, when it came to paintings, I no longer knew what I liked but I knew what was art. That supernatural talent didn't stick with me, dammmation.
Speaking of awesome skillz, this enhanced-reality-inside-our-reality thing is all the rage, isn't it. American Music had the same theme (although they weren't freaked out about the stories that rose up from the massages she gave) I guess supernatural talent-- that isn't worth spit on the save civilization market-- comes to quiet young women who are not particularly talented or ambitious in other ways.