Following up a successful venture is always a challenge for any artist. The sophomore slump can hit anyone in any medium, be it a lame album or a weak sequel.

Novelists aren't exempt from this plague, and Michael Tolkin's second novel attempt, Among the Dead, suffers from a similar dilemma.

Although Tolkin's inaugural work, The Player, was a scathingly brutal look at the cruel world of Hollywood cut-throats, Among the Dead falls short of anything other than grating.

Truly a chore to stumble through at 273 pages, Among the Dead (William Morrow & Co.) chronicles a slice of life for Frank Gale, the most self-absorbed character to hit popular literature in a long time.

Frank concocts a self-righteous plan to come clean to his wife about his affair, therefore absolving himself of his sins while rekindling the dwindling flames of his dull marriage. He writes a letter, planning to give it to his wife while they vacation in Mexico.

But fate gets in the way. His wife discovers the letter before they leave Los Angeles and Frank misses the plane, which crashes in San Diego. Thus begins one of the most introspective and disgusting analysis ever mass-produced.

Frank looks at everything in his own twisted and self-hating way, giving nameless faces life stories and sexually questioning/fantasizing about every woman he sees, including his cousin. He manages to muse about people's sexual orientation and upbringing without ever speaking to them.

Despite the tragedy that has struck him, Frank refuses to command sympathy from the reader and remains a sad example of an over-analytical, self-hating bore.

Whatever magic Tolkin used to put together the chilling story of Hollywood exec Griffin Mill in The Player -- transformed into film by cinematic genius Robert Altman -- is absent from this 1993 release. It is a challenge to keep from throwing the book across the room.