Freedom's Choice (1997) by Anne McCaffrey is about 295 pages too long. Every single word is utterly forgettable. Every conversation is dull. The tome reeks of pointlessness basted in apathy. How a writer of McCaffrey's statue could forget to use plot, pacing, and other basic literary conventions is beyond me. Emotionally, the book is a straight line, never deviating from its steady state. You never doubt anything because the books essentially goes nowhere. Yes, stuff happens, but you don't care. This book progresses in the same way that wandering far enough in any direction feels like you've progressed. She phoned this thing in.
How did this even get published?
Any reasonable writer could have told this tale in one quarter of the words, and had a greater impact on the reader. The work is no better than a novella tossed into a puffed rice maker, only bigger because it contained more air.
If you don't mind drinking on the beach as you turn off your brain, you'll find this an entertaining book. Any drunk can follow the lacadasical plot, and the story repeatedly tells you information, so you don't have to worry about forgetting anything.
I'm not even going to stand here and justify myself. That would be more than this book deserves.
What galls me most is that it isn't a one star book. I'd have far more fun with a truly bad book. No, this is a two-star turkey perfect for the days when you're on heavy meds.