There seem to be a lot of generic books out there these days. Born to Be Wilde is a perfect example.

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You’ve got a standard issue Spunky, Young Working Woman heroine in jeopardy who is rescued by a hero who – and you’ll never believe this – is a Former Military Guy with his own security business.

So, the Spunky Young Working Woman has a Feckless Brother who just so happens to have saved the life of the Former Military Guy back in Iraq, so Mr. Feckless calls in Mr. Military to protect Spunky from the bad guys who are after her because of Feckless’ gambling losses.

Apparently, there have been about 268 books before this one telling the tale of the Wilde family, and, as the author indicates in her foreward, “The wait for Joel Wilde’s story is finally over!” Well, I just don’t know what to say to that. Except maybe the truth is that I haven’t been waiting for Joel Wilde’s story because I’ve never heard of Joel Wilde before, but if I were waiting breathlessly for Joel Wilde’s story, I’d be underwhelmed. Make that really (really, really, really) underwhelmed.

Things get even more generic – and forgettable – when you add in a clichéd secondary romance featuring the Bad Girl Just Dying to Be a Good One and the Good Man Who Reforms Her. See, she really wants to be good and the only reason she was acting all wild (sorry, Wilde) is because she really was all broken inside, something that the really nice, preppy, sweet young math teacher sees right away despite her ho-ish exterior. (You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to decode the secret message here: Bad girls are wounded, see?)

And the head-hopping! Oh, the head-hopping! The author careens wildly (sorry, Wildely) from Spunky to Military Guy and just as recklessly between Bad Girl and Good Man. I can usually stomach a little head-hopping from time to time, but the reader-abuse here is off the charts.

You know, there are pleasures to be had from a screamingly bad book. But an average one? Nope. Nada. Zip. And it’s just hard to work up much enthusiasm for a book you’ve already read far (far, far, far, far) too many times already. And if reading a generic book is bad enough, try writing a review of one. For about the ten thousandth time.