"Confessions of a Shopaholic" is the literary equivalent of marshmallow fluff -- light as air, sickly sweet, no nutritional value whatsoever, and if you ingest too much in a single sitting, it has the potential to make you really, really sick.

Sophie Kinsella's character-driven effort is charming in concept, and that is what initially drew me to a book to which I normally wouldn't have given a second glance. After all, who among us (myself included) hasn't found ourselves -- at one time or another -- in Rebecca Bloomwood's shoes? Rebecca, the heroine of "Confessions" has a life that can be summed up in a simple equation: Too much shopping + not enough money = debt.

Rebecca is a confirmed shopaholic. When life is going well, she shops. When life is going sour, she shops. In fact, shopping consumes most of Rebecca's life. Her VISA card is her lifeline. However, Rebecca hasn't quite come to terms with the concept that eventually she will have to pay for her purchases.

For a character-driven novel to succeed, the reader must -- at least on some level -- identify with the character, and this is where "Confessions of a Shopaholic" failed miserably for me.

I didn't love Rebecca. I didn't hate Rebecca. In fact, though at times a shopaholic myself, I wasn't able to identify with her even just a little. In fact, like a fly which lands on your arm time and again despite your best efforts to shoe it away, so did Rebecca Bloomwood become a source of irritation for me. More a caricature than a fleshed out character, Rebecca become more and more one-dimensional as the plot progressed, and rather than pulling for her to come through, I found myself wishing for her to get her come-uppance.

Plot, you ask? Well, there is actually very little in the way of plot in this book. "Confessions" has a completely linear plot. Rebecca shops, getting more and more into debt, until she is in some seriously deep trouble, and then she gets out of it. End of story. There are few, if any plot complications, and the secondary characters are hardly worth a mention.

Although novels such as this are not supposed to be wholly believable, I've read fantasy novels more realistic than "Confessions". Her dealings with her creditors are laughably unrealistic, and I'd love to have the job she has -- where she can flit about town without a worry over a potential pink slip.

It's not that Kinsella is a bad writer. Her prose is passable. Not once did I find myself mired in swamps of sticky dialogue, nor did I find myself re-reading paragraph after paragraph of muddy words. The writing in the book is fine. It's substance that's lacking.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no great literary critic, and you won't find great tomes of Tolstoy or even Saramago gracing the shelves of my apartment. Still, the thought that I stomached "Confessions" through to its final pathetic pages, makes me shiver.

Don't get me wrong. If light reading is what you want, then you just might enjoy "Confessions", but at the risk of sounding pretentious, Sophie Kinsella's "Confessions of a Shopaholic" is easily the shallowest book I've ever read.

My recommendation: if you're in the mood for marshmallow fluff, drive yourself on over to the supermarket. It's that white stuff that you can put over ice cream or perhaps fashion into a fluffernutter sandwich -- if you're into that kind of thing. You'll find it in the aisle with the peanut butter and jelly. Unlike Sophie Kinsella's failed novel, it's only a few dollars a jar, at worst.

You'll be much better off, trust me, and if nothing else, at least it's cheaper.