The New York Times opines that “Yellowface” is “a twisty thriller and a scorching indictment of the publishing industry’s pervasive whiteness and racial blind spots.”

If only it were so.

Rather, while “Yellowface” is indeed a send-up on the failings of the publishing industry – which, ironically, the author herself takes full advantage of – there is neither anything twisty, thrilling, or evenly mildly scorching about it.

In a word, “Yellowface” is annoying.

The prose reads like a lengthy post on Bluesky or X, a self-indulgent rant by perhaps the most unlikeable character I’ve come across: a whiny, weak-minded, morally empty would-be author so emotionally needy that she balks at no deceit to feed her sniveling inner beast.

I told myself as the year began that I would bail early on such drivel, but because “Yellowface” was my first book of the new calendar, I slogged on to the equally disappointing finish.

If indeed “Yellowface” – published by William Morrow — somehow indicts Big Publishing it does so by its very existence, testament to the current sad state of standards that not only allow but seemingly encourage younger authors to publish whatever comes into their digitally shaped minds.