So, I read a book this weekend. The book shall remain nameless because I don’t want to really slam the author. After all, she has done something I have not – gotten a book finished and out there for consumption.
Just in case Melanie Greene is reading this – no, it’s not yours. I loved yours. Everyone needs to read Melanie Greene.
This book, however, was supposed to be a mystery/love story. Except neither mystery nor love actually happened. The main character (I assume) was supposed to be a feisty entrepreneur. Nope. She was a weak whiner who couldn’t see the forest for the trees. The mystery’s basis in family – well, if she couldn’t recognize a family run like it was a capo in the syndicate, I could. Even the names gave it away.
The mystery man – well, let’s just say that was the worst kept mystery in the world.
The new man – he loved her from afar and got friendzoned for his troubles.
Mexico – she went to Mexico and didn’t ask for bottled water. (And how Mexico too 22 hours from California by air is beyond me).
Every zig crossed a zag and every zag led neatly to a tie in one of the character’s lives. I mean really – the psychic was way interconnected with everything form Dissociative Identity Disorder (one character) to knowing the supposedly dead fiance was alive and living in Mexico (with pictures of his art to prove it). Don’t you think she could have gotten a picture of the artist?
And what in the holy hell was this whole brother-sister creates the evil “cousin/brother”? Too much Jamie and Cersei Lanniseter or something? O.M.G.
So nothing happens until Part III and by then, one does not even care.
So, as I’m reading this, I am thinking – damn, my idea is at least this good. Hopefully better. My writing is sure the hell better because I will never write “the tears leaked from her eyes.” Eyes are not plumbing fixtures. Tears might slide between wet eyelashes or pool and spill but they (in my book) don’t leak from cerulean blue eyes.
And, I would definitely ask for bottled water in Mexico.
Oh, and she didn’t even check to see if she had an international calling plan – she must have paid a fortune for all the texts and calls she made from Mexico.
The art of being able to believe comes into play here. I need to sit down and really write the damn book. I mean, if this book could get it done, so, surely, could mine.