I turn on my Kindle and there you are. Waiting for me. Teasing me with your lovely cover and interesting premise. Taunting me.
“I’m a show on Netflix now,” you say. “I’ll understand if you just want to watch me instead of reading me first.”
But you know I won’t do that. You read me as clearly as you know I’ll be reading you. You tease me because you know I can’t help but give into you.
Dirty, compelling, popular
So I do what you knew I would. I give into you. I put aside my fantasy novels and classics and well worn Nora Roberts collection for a fling. And I wallow in the difference. From the start, you drew me in with your unusual prose style, with your use of second person narration from a first person perspective and your stream of consciousness meandering. I’m intrigued, and you know it. You’re wild and dark and something I’ve never read before. I’m inside the mind of a crazy person, and I don’t hate it. You’re insane, but in a sexy way. I love criminal psychology and you, my darling, are a poster child for a wide array of issues. You fascinate me.
But the honeymoon phase doesn’t last forever.
The inside of Joe’s mind is a buffet of narcissistic tendencies and erratic emotions. You give me such a unique view into that mind, and it’s incredible how I as a reader can see how messed up Joe is when he can’t see that for himself, especially since we are getting the story entirely from his internal monologue. His hypocrisy and self-delusion are both immense in a way I’ve never experienced elsewhere. But after a while, even this riveting insight into one of the most unstable and delusional minds I’ve ever come across started to feel stale. Because, even though Joe’s mind was a captivating train wreck of a place, you had one major pitfall.
You were so predictable.
I mean, a book this crazy should give me shock after shock as I frantically read. But you didn’t do that. You meandered toward “twists” that I could see coming from chapters away. I predicted your climax before the end of chapter seven. There was no depth to you. While you were fun, you were definitely superficial, which was disappointing. I can’t think of a single time I was actually surprised by you. Except in regards to vulgarity. Sweet baby chickens, are you vulgar. I mean, I am totally fine with foul language. They’re just words, after all, and some genres and stories seem to almost call for the strongest wording possible. But you threw vulgarity around like confetti. And your obsession with sex and seeming need to describe every body part and secretion was just gross.
Seriously, you were a hot, filthy mess. While I had fun with you, I also felt the need to scrub my brain out with a toothbrush. Eew.
Even though you were shallow and, let’s be honest, nasty, I wouldn’t unread you. I’ve had way worse popular fiction experiences. (Looking at you, Girl on the Train.) You were a fun fling while you lasted, but I’m ready to make my way back to my deep and abiding literary loves. Be well, You. May your audience be vast and appreciative. And they will be, as long as you keep being
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