I didn’t enjoy reading The Ghostwriter, a mystery novel written by Julie Clark. I cared nothing for the protagonist (a ghostwriter commissioned by her estranged father, a celebrated novelist, to write a memoir about the infamous murders of his brother and sister decades earlier). The plot felt contrived and unbelievable, the prose flat, and the disjointed structure irritating. All of this was apparent quite early, so why did I persevere? Because the novel was a gift from a family member. Not reading it or abandoning it half-read would have been unconscionably rude. Those near and dear to me know what books mean to me and the outsized role they play in my life. An act of such kindness and thoughtfulness – someone walking into a bookstore and taking the time to choose a title they think I would enjoy (even if on this occasion they got it wrong) – means a lot to me.