That Old Ace in the Hole, Annie Proulx. Annie P. is too old. She's never been good at novel-length plots, and now she's turned out a shapeless wad of nothing in particular, featuring a gaggle of rural grotesques (you can't call them a cast of characters when there's no story) as imagined by a New Yorker author for a New Yorker audience. She gives them names like Coolbroth Fronk, Tater Crouch, and Dick Head, and jerks them around through sordid, violent, and ludicrous antics for her own amusement if nobody else's.
This book is supposed to be set in the Texas Panhandle, but, funny thing, it reads exactly like her Wyoming stories, which I alternately resented and laughed at for their under-the-top inaccuracies.
And why & the hell can't the woman write with connectives?