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Body Surfing, Anita Shreve
I want to stop reading Shreve's novels, if only because they always end up disappointing me. Body Surfing was no different, mildly predictable, played-out characters, and a lackluster plot. I was enticed by a description that mentioned some sort of bizarre fraternal love triangle, but really, the triangle was less sex (not even about sex, just no sex) and more about power and sibling rivalry.
What was interesting (if not also cloying) was the reference to other (enjoyable) works on Shreve's shelf--Sea Glass being one. That's as close as I get to series fiction, however.
The Dive from Clausen's Pier, Ann Packer
I liked most of the book and actually took it home to read (perhaps a truer measure of my enjoyment of a title--did I take it home?). The opening chapter presents what might be a more common scene than the good-hearted among us care to imagine--a couple on their way to an end suddenly facing a life-changing accident. Carrie Bell has to then wrestle with expectations and ultimately alienates much of her hometown when she leaves in the middle of the night.
The story moves from the midwest to New York and while it was written with recognizable cliches (the Loner, the walkable City, the Midwestern Girl, and so on), it was deftly done. Kilroy remains a loner, the small-town looms larger than Manhattan, and Carrie leaves with a little stain from the city, a pleasant and real reminder of her independence.
Sharp Objects, Gillian Flynn
What does it say about me that I devoured this novel and loved practically every bizarre, belly-turning second? Probably that I cut my adolescent teeth on secreted V. C. Andrews books...
The story starts out strongly, small-town girl made big-city reporter is assigned to cover a pair of murders that happened in her small-town. A familiar enough plot, Flynn gives us not just another starry-eyed girl made big, but a broken girl, reluctant to return home and unable to articulate exactly why.
While home, Camille visits old ghosts, fucks the lead investigator as well as the lead suspect (two different people), and solves the case. Described that way, it's a fairly straight-forward thriller/mystery. As the story unfolds, though, the bizarre twistedness unfurls like a tired, fading flag. It's the sort of thing that had me saying to myself, "This is not about to happen..." And it happened.
It's hard to say whole-heartedly that a book about pre-pubescent murdered girls is good, but this one works. Well-written, but not for the weak-minded.
Next up: What to Keep, Son of a Witch, The Way the Crow Flies, and Necessary Madness. I'll be packing at least one of these for the Hershey trip next week!!!
I want to stop reading Shreve's novels, if only because they always end up disappointing me. Body Surfing was no different, mildly predictable, played-out characters, and a lackluster plot. I was enticed by a description that mentioned some sort of bizarre fraternal love triangle, but really, the triangle was less sex (not even about sex, just no sex) and more about power and sibling rivalry.
What was interesting (if not also cloying) was the reference to other (enjoyable) works on Shreve's shelf--Sea Glass being one. That's as close as I get to series fiction, however.
The Dive from Clausen's Pier, Ann Packer
I liked most of the book and actually took it home to read (perhaps a truer measure of my enjoyment of a title--did I take it home?). The opening chapter presents what might be a more common scene than the good-hearted among us care to imagine--a couple on their way to an end suddenly facing a life-changing accident. Carrie Bell has to then wrestle with expectations and ultimately alienates much of her hometown when she leaves in the middle of the night.
The story moves from the midwest to New York and while it was written with recognizable cliches (the Loner, the walkable City, the Midwestern Girl, and so on), it was deftly done. Kilroy remains a loner, the small-town looms larger than Manhattan, and Carrie leaves with a little stain from the city, a pleasant and real reminder of her independence.
Sharp Objects, Gillian Flynn
What does it say about me that I devoured this novel and loved practically every bizarre, belly-turning second? Probably that I cut my adolescent teeth on secreted V. C. Andrews books...
The story starts out strongly, small-town girl made big-city reporter is assigned to cover a pair of murders that happened in her small-town. A familiar enough plot, Flynn gives us not just another starry-eyed girl made big, but a broken girl, reluctant to return home and unable to articulate exactly why.
While home, Camille visits old ghosts, fucks the lead investigator as well as the lead suspect (two different people), and solves the case. Described that way, it's a fairly straight-forward thriller/mystery. As the story unfolds, though, the bizarre twistedness unfurls like a tired, fading flag. It's the sort of thing that had me saying to myself, "This is not about to happen..." And it happened.
It's hard to say whole-heartedly that a book about pre-pubescent murdered girls is good, but this one works. Well-written, but not for the weak-minded.
Next up: What to Keep, Son of a Witch, The Way the Crow Flies, and Necessary Madness. I'll be packing at least one of these for the Hershey trip next week!!!
