The Second Chance Convenience Store by Kim Ho-Yeon: A Book Review (Not My Cup of Tea, but Still Worth Reading)
My book club chose to read The Second Chance Convenience Store by Kim Ho-Yeon. People loved this book, and I was thrilled that the book club picked it; I wanted to see what the buzz was.
On a sentence level, the writing is beautiful. It’s calm, observant, and generous. The prose doesn’t draw attention to itself, but it flows—feels confident. There’s a lot of care in how people are seen and treated on the page.
That said—full honesty—I’m not sure I would have finished this book if I hadn’t committed to reading it for the book club.
Not because it’s poorly written. Quite the opposite. But because as a reader, I sometimes felt myself drifting. The story is very soft, the tension is low, and the pull to keep turning pages wasn’t always there for me.
That experience ended up being the most interesting part of the read.
Genre Promise and the Absence of Friction
This novel sits squarely in what’s called the healing or comfort fiction genre. This is a new genre for me. The promise here isn’t suspense, uncertainty, or hard-earned change. The promise is reassurance.
Characters arrive carrying heavy problems—loneliness, regret, shame, grief—and those problems are met with kindness, understanding, and relatively smooth resolution. People heal. Community works.
From a genre perspective, this is intentional.
From a reader perspective, it can feel very different depending on what you enjoy. For me, it wasn’t a perfect match—even though it’s clearly a genre many readers love.
For me, the lack of friction stood out. I missed resistance. Consequences that linger. Moments where change felt harder, slower, or less guaranteed. The book was fine—it just delivered a very specific reader experience that didn’t match my profile.
Writer takeaway:
Genre isn’t just about setting or tone. It’s a promise about how hard things will be for your characters—and how safely the reader will be carried through the story.
Slow Narrative Drive as a Craft Choice
The book has narrative drive. It’s just very slow—and very intentionally so.
The story moves forward through accumulation rather than escalation. Small interactions stack up. Emotional shifts happen gradually. Change is incremental, not dramatic. There’s no sense of urgency, and that’s part of the reader contract.
Nothing is broken here.
This is a novel that asks the reader to stay—not to rush. It doesn’t pull you forward with tension so much as invite you to linger. For readers who enjoy that rhythm, the experience probably feels deeply calming and meaningful.
For me, that slowness required a kind of commitment. I had to adjust my reading method, slow down. Once I did, I could see the craft at work: the patience, the restraint, the trust that meaning will emerge if we give it time.
Writer takeaway:
Narrative drive doesn’t have to be fast or dramatic—but it does have to be intentional. If your story is slow, it needs to own that slowness and teach the reader how to read it.
Slowness, Resolution, and Reader Expectations
The same is true for how the book handles resolution. The characters’ problems are met with tidy solutions. That contributes to the sense of calm and safety that defines the healing genre.
Again, this isn’t about realism versus “easy answers.” It’s about what the story is designed to offer.
This book isn’t trying to simulate how hard life can be. It’s offering a counterweight. A place where care, attention, and small acts of kindness matter—and where they work.
For some readers, that feels deeply satisfying. For others, especially those who read for friction or uncertainty, it may feel too neat.
Writer takeaway:
Slowness and resolution work together. If your story moves slowly and resolves gently, you’re creating a specific emotional space for the reader. That space can be beautiful—but it needs to be the space you actually want to create.
What Writers Can Learn from This Kind of Slowness
What I appreciate most, in hindsight, is how clear the book is about what it’s doing.
It doesn’t pretend to be something else. It doesn’t suddenly introduce conflict it can’t sustain. It stays true to its tone all the way through.
That consistency is craft.
Writer takeaway:
If you’re writing a “quiet” story, resist the temptation to add drama just to keep things moving. Instead, ask how meaning accumulates. What shifts, even subtly, from beginning to end? What changes because we stayed?
Reading Across Cultures (and Avoiding Easy Conclusions)
One reason I’m glad I read this book is that it offered a glimpse into a different cultural storytelling tradition. Healing fiction has been especially popular in South Korea in recent years, often focusing on everyday spaces, community, and emotional repair.
It’s important, though, not to confuse a genre with a culture.
A novel like The Vegetarian sits almost at the opposite end of the spectrum: unsettling, ambiguous, and deeply uncomfortable. Same country. Completely different reader contract.
Reading these books side by side is a good reminder that no literary tradition is one thing—and that our reading expectations are shaped as much by genre as by culture.
Writer takeaway:
When reading outside your usual cultural or genre context, notice what feels unfamiliar—and ask whether that discomfort comes from the writing itself or from a different set of reader expectations.
So, Would I Recommend It?
Yes—with context.
This is a slow, gentle novel with a clear sense of direction. It moves forward quietly, without urgency, and resolves in ways that prioritize reassurance over friction.
I didn’t always feel pulled along—but I could see the intention behind the pace. And that made it a valuable read, especially as a writer thinking about genre, reader promise, and the many different ways a story can move.
Not every good book has to be a perfect fit to be worth your time.
Some books don’t just entertain us; they clarify our taste. And once we understand what we respond to as readers, it becomes much easier to write with intention.