June in San Francisco is winter. Completely fogged in, blustery, and chilly. It’s perfect day for hot tea and a book on the couch. The book itself is well-written, but tedious. It’s almost like the author is trying too hard to be erudite. I’m not going to name the book because I still have another hundred pages to go—at least I haven’t lost my interest even though the characters are all stuck-up and not likeable. (Hint: It’s one of the books in the picture.) What drives me is each character confronts their aspirations and limitations, they find renewal in surprising and satisfying ways. But again, while the writing is polished, the author tries too hard to impress. It’s the common “not able to see the forest for the trees” cliché.