Verdict, No. 16

(find the judgment here)

The Dog Stars

by Peter Heller

"I wake from dream into dream and am not sure why I keep going. That I suspect only curiosity keeps me alive. That I'm not sure any longer if that is enough."

*

An apt example sentence if ever there was one. For this is exactly what I found myself wondering about...two pages into the book. What is it about adult fiction that makes writers suddenly feel free to go crazy? I know I am a self-proclaimed lover of young adult literature and people don't tend to take me seriously because of it. But maybe it's because adult fiction is really just a bunch of grown-ups trying to prove they're not kids anymore. But they do it in the most asinine way possible. 

Now, I wouldn't exactly call myself a prude. There are books with swearing, sex, or drug use that I can appreciate. As long as there's a reason for it--as in it makes sense. So the first few F words, fine. This guys living in a crappy world filled with awful people, I guess a dirty mouth only makes sense. But this book averaged about three F words a page. At some three hundred pages...it becomes a little excessive. And then there's the whole sex thing. I know, I know. People have sex. It happens. It's a thing of life. And men who go nine years without it I'm sure would naturally think about it were a beautiful woman to suddenly walk into their lives. But I don't need to know every awkward detail just because it's happening. With or without the sex scene, the book would happen. So why be so blatant and crude about it? Since when did vulgarity equal maturity?

It's kind of an unfair standard: if drugs, sex, and swearing are in YA fiction, people are up in arms claiming literature is ruining their kids' moralities. It's YA books that are banned from schools, too awful for their dear children to face. Books like Catcher in the Rye or anything Mark Twain. But when I read something about F-ing with some hot young thing and all the...let's say intimate details involved, I want to turn around and yell "Right back at ya." Cuz things here just got awkward real fast. 

This is why I read YA, people. 

And maybe it is just me, but I think this book would have been just as strong without all that. Okay, let's be fair: without so much of it. But I doubt it would have gotten so much attention. Because people like the shock and awe factor. They like inexplicable gore and violence and sensuality. You see it in movies, you see it in books. So maybe it's inevitable. Maybe I should let adult fiction be just that: adult. So let's ignore all that lovely stuff and focus on the story. Did I like it?

Maybe. I can't really say. I wasn't at all invested in the main character, Hig, or his life decisions. But I was interested in the world he was forced to reside in. And there was a certain effortlessness to Heller's Hemingway-like prose. It was simplistic. Stylistic. Choppy. Desperate. Interesting (once you got into the swing of it). Heller does a great job at characterizing a heartless world and, while there doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to the plot, that same inexplicability makes this desperate world seem all the more real. And Hig's heartbreak for his dead wife is...beautiful. The obsession for the dog--practically titular--is unexplained. In fact, it's mostly forgotten after about thirty pages in when the animal, well, dies. It became almost awkward when Hig brought it up later--as if Heller realized that maybe if he wanted "dog" in the title, he should keep mentioning it throughout. Even as a way to keep someone from killing him. Cuz that would work on me.

So, yes, this is a chilling novel, a frightening world, and it's a story about a broken man's search for wholeness in a shattered world. There were definitely some heart-wrenching, hopeless and beautiful parts. But they were far and few between, tangled around a mess of distracting vulgarity. Call me quaint, but it just didn't work for me. So if this is the best of new adult fiction, count me out. I'd so rather have a taste of YA any day. 

Verdict, No. 15

 (find the judgment here)
 Frozen

by Robin Wasserman

*

I bought it on a whim.
I bought it because it was cheap.
I bought it because maybe I was intrigued.
I bought it because Scott Westerfeld told me to.
I bought it without really looking into it.
I bought it because I was bored.
I bought it, okay.

No matter my excuses, let me tell you now, I will never be able to justify or excuse the fact that I paid money for this book. Nor will I be able to forgive myself for insinuating to the publisher, author, etc. that I am in any way interested in this book. I'm not. And it's not that it's the worst or even stupidest book I've ever read (cough*Twilight*cough), it's just...lousy. If you can believe it, it tries too hard while not really trying at all. There's a desperate attempt at shock-and-awe, at edginess, but two-thirds into it and I saw just how quickly it was getting no where. I mean, I forgot about it for three days straight--at the climax. And, let's be honest, I haven't picked it up since. Frankly, it's just not worth the time.

Maybe the fact that they had to repackage it to try and get more sales should have been proof of that.

Verdict, No. 12

(find the judgment here)

The Daughter of Siena

by Marina Fiorato

*

If I had done my original thing and tried to surmise the plot from the cover, I would have had it down pat. Everything about it was predictable; the back cover game it all away--you just had to read between the lines:

Girl is married off to evil boy.

Girl falls for pretty boy. 

Pretty boy wants to win race for girl. 

Girl evokes wrath of evil boy. 

Evil boy loses anyway. 

Did I give anything away? Not really. I thought maybe the plot wouldn't matter; that with such a pretty cover, it would be gorgeous anyway. But, alas, it failed me. I wouldn't recommend it anyway. Not on any level. Because it really wasn't anything.

It wasn't historical fiction 

No, there was a historical backdrop where Fiorato had her characters--some of them real--do whatever she wanted them to. I mean, she even had an apology at the back of the book for rewriting history to fit her story. And I may have been out of the historical-fiction loop for awhile, but I don't think that's how it traditionally goes. For all the drama, I don't feel like I learned anything honest about that time period. It all felt fake--like a Spanish soap opera (complete with a long-lost twin).

It wasn't romance. 

It tried to be, but it wasn't. Again, Fiorato's characters did whatever she wanted them to. So all she could say about the main characters relationship was that they  were "inexplicably drawn" to one another. Well said; it was inexplicable. All they could say about each other was that they were beautiful. That, my friends, is called LUST, not love. I mean, after they shared their first kiss (lame), the first thing he could say was "Lay with me." Ah, yes, those are the words I would give up anything and risk everything for.  

And it wasn't even lovely about it. 

Seriously, it got uncomfortable. Fast. There were near-rape scenes, constant abuse--self-afflicted and otherwise--and then, midway through, there was a sudden fascination with homosexuality. And it got graphic. I don't consider myself overly-sensitive, but the only way I got through the whole thing was by ripping out nearly 20 pages in the middle. That's right: I desecrated the most beautiful book I've ever seen. And it only sits on my bookshelf still because it is so pretty. 

So, there. I'm just as shallow as the main characters.

But I suppose, in this case, the old adage is true: you can't judge a book by its cover. Because, if you could, I would have loved this book. It should have been my favorite. Just like Entwined. What cruel irony, then: my favorite covers, home to my least favorite books. Life really isn't fair.

Verdict, No. 11

(find the judgment here)

XVI

by Julia Karr

This book is entirely forgettable. Literally and in every way. Three days, and I've already thrown any and all recollection of it away. So I guess I'm really not in any position to review it. But I'll try.

I remember the beginning was good. The build-up. (And I remember I was dead on about the plot twisting at the 50-page mark, because I never forget being right like that). And I remember there was indeed a complete-opposite best friend (didn't really see that end coming though). And there was something close to a love triangle for all of three pages before Karr decided, without reason, that that didn't matter anymore. Introduce hot Asian chick, pass off ex-lover to her, and everyone's happy-go-lucky again. Because these characters are devoid of any realism. They are fake cut-outs that you're never given any reason to care about.

Oh, yeah. I definitely remember that.

This novel was weak in every way. It fell into every common YA trap: it introduces an edgy concept, only to never really follow through with it; it turns from focusing on the world to zooming in on the relationship status of the main character; it doesn't worry about characterization but about reaching the next plot point; it relies on cliches to create a world that even the writer didn't understand completely; and there is no point to it. You think with 1984 as the grandad to the dystopian novel people would understand it wasn't just about a gritty world--it was about relating it back to our now and making the characters stand out in some real sense.

Nope. Nothing like that here.

And I really did start out liking it. The first few pages were interesting because of the world. And then Karr bailed on that to tell us how much her two main characters were in love (we won't even get into the ultimate cliche of how they actually had no reason to be in love. At all). So by that 50-page mark, I felt betrayed. None of it mattered. The world was too broad for the narrow focus she spun; the characters were too shallow for the depth she tried to throw them to. And it wasn't even well-written.

Everything about it felt forced. The writing, the characters, the world. There was nothing real about it, and so I just put it down and moved on. Because, on every level, I just didn't care.

Verdict, No. 9

 (find the judgment here)

If you had asked me yesterday what the most disappointing sequel I've ever read was, I would have said Mockingjay. Today? I might just have to go with this book.

After a promising debut, Jillian Larkin seems to have forgotten how to write. Maybe she fell and hit her head, maybe she took a writing class from Stephanie Meyer. But something happened, because reading this was pure drudgery. And it's not like I was expecting some grand, award-winning story. I just thought, I dunno, that there would be some sense of continuity. So much of this novel failed to make sense. It was a complete and utter disaster.

First, it was the same exact story. Only, she rotated the characters. So instead of hating Lorraine, Clara becomes the annoying one who ruins everything good in inexplicable ways. She goes completely haywire. Lorraine is set up like Clara was in the first: she's in a new city, trying to prove herself while simultaneoulsy find herself. And Gloria becomes stale. She, and her storyline, were completely forgettable (don't even get me started on that reunion at the end. Talk about mood swings). And I guess Larkin was going through a bad break-up or something, because she hated men in this one.

Which brings me to point two: for a series that started as a tryst-ridden, breezy-romantic story with a darker side, now it's gone ultra-feminist for no apparent reason. The characterization from the first is made void in this one. Every character is suddenly an inexplicably different person. Marcus is suddenly close-minded and dull; Vera is suddenly sweet and even approachable; all the girls change roles as previously mentioned. It's just a catastrophe. As if Larkin wanted to write a completely new story. Well, then she shouldn't have made it a series following the same people doing the same things in the same settings.

I suppose if this were a separate novel, or if maybe I read this one first--I suppose then it might not have been so bad. Except for the writing (Seriously? Was the first one this bad? Or was I just less of a snob then?). I might have enjoyed it on some level (probably not, actually). But the real problem here is that it is a sequel. It's a follow-up and it's a prequel to the next. Yet Larkin spends this whole book taking apart what was built up in the first (mostly), and I no longer care what happens to them. I feel betrayed.

I feel like she lured us with a honey-coated story of glamor and intrigue and indelicacies only to suddenly snap at us with this men-suck tirade. After a torrid tale of forbidden romance and will they/won't they, it becomes all work and no play. The girls are boring, the boys are dull, and the "drama" with the mob isn't really that dramatic at all. Now I can't trust Larkin's ability to spin a serial like this. I'm afraid to attach to any of the characters now because maybe she'll just twist 'em about in the next one too.

A quote on the cover--the only quote, and by some nobody too--says it's "the dishiest." No, not really. Not at all. It's dry and it's boring and too self-important, whereas the last was merely self-indulgent. She puts her characters and her story into a blender, along with any credibility she may have had as a writer. Then she adds a dash of new and unlikable characters, a splash of sudden and unresolved twists. Finally, with a violent edge, she dices up the charm of the first, throws in some all-men-are-cads, and rips out the cattiness and any fun of the first. She turns it on and watches it churn into trite nonsense with, I imagine, only the snidest smile. Ding! It's done. The result? A catastrophic and epic fail with no real explanation.

No, scratch that. The explanation is that Larkin wanted a different, edgy story. But she betrays her foundation, and her fan base, to get it. And, trust me, it doesn't pay off.

Verdict, No. 7

 (find the judgment here)

 Well, I got what I paid for.

Books are just becoming more and more disappointing. Really, though, it was exactly what it said it would be: a love story. With a love triangle gone haywire. I just didn't expect it to be so…uneventful.

I was pretty much dead-on with the judgment (about the love square with a best friend, old boyfriend, and the bad boy) and that made me feel good about myself. But I quickly discovered there was no real plot to follow. It was just a classic story of girl-breaks-head, girl-meets-boy, girl-meets-other-boy, girl-meets-another-boy, girl-chooses-boy, girl-chooses-wrong-boy, girl-chooses-right-boy. Predictable? Definitely. Believable? Sometimes. Entertaining? Not exactly.

The best I can say is that Gabrielle Zevin definitely knew her protagonist. As a character, she made sense. Most of the time. And I loved the best friend. I was laughing out loud in the beginning over his goofy antics and his and the protagonist’s natural back and forth. In fact, I could believe everything about the main character and the sidekick best friend. It was the bad boy new guy that threw me off. The major emotional baggage he carried—didn’t see that one coming. And her original boyfriend felt very flat, dry, dull, irksome. He was just there to be there. Some sort of tie to her past. But that’s just it: her past was the part of her that didn’t make sense. The version of her hinted at in the beginning, before she lost her memory—the calorie counter happy to be popular—didn’t make since in the new-self context. And it was never explained. Plus the popular/shallow side versus the yearbook/dorkie side versus the damaged/mysterious side was never really explained or pulled together in any way. She was just who she was according to who she was with. And that is what eventually…well, ruined the story.

The first half of the novel was definitely better than the second. The second dragged with the weight of all this lovey-dovey, daddy issues stuff. As a teen romance dramedy, it went off the beaten path. Which could have paid off, but here the whole piece just floundered. Halfway through, I was no longer excited by the will-they-won’t-they. It was obvious who she would end up with—who she should end up with—but who’d she’d choose first. But I can usually put up with predictable fiction, only here there was no pay off. No point in caring, no point in remaining attached. There was no reason to her rhyme, so the say. The story fizzled, the plot arch disappeared, and all there was was a girl fighting the inevitable in a dull sort of way. It wasn't necessarily bad, it just wasn't that good.

Verdict, No. 6

(find the judgment here)

This was a simple book (to put it kindly), so this will be a simple review. Mostly because I don’t want to spend more time on this review than I did feeling involved in the story. That means I have like…three minutes to write this.

So. Three reasons I didn’t like The Compound?

One: The characters made no sense. A mother willing to poison her husband but not willing to stand up to him about killing babies? A little girl who talks in a British accent because she spent her childhood watching Mary Poppins? A step-sister who is simultaneously emo, a classical dancer, and a weeping romantic? A man smart enough to make BILLIONS but crazy enough to consider locking a family in a compound a fun family vacation people would pay for? And then a boy who truly hates life, who’s supposed to be super evil, yet finds it in himself to love his opposite brother and pull a 180 in less than a day?

Sorry, but I just can’t buy it.

Two: The plot made no sense. A compound as a resort function? Really? Sorry to sort of spoil the ending, but the “explanation” is just so lame. The climatic reveal is just a what-the-crap-was-that-person-thinking moment. And I’m still confused on what the father’s intentions were with the “supplements” and then the cloning. I’m still reeling from how far Bodeen expects us to suspend reality.

Three: The finale made no sense. And for those still hoping/willing/wanting to read it, I won’t go into it. But just trust me. It made no sense.

If any of you have seen the film Knowing…think of that ending…and then just don’t read this book because it’s even worse.

Really, though, there were some exciting moments. Some twenty pages towards the end—with the puzzle and the pieces all coming together—were all entertaining to read. It was fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat stuff. But then it just…ended. For such a long, tortuous build-up, no rising action/falling action made the ending worth it. It all felt too easy, too obvious, and so boring.

Verdict, No. 8

find the judgment here

The cover uses buzz words like "haunting," "tender," "honest." I mean, look at that girl: doesn't she seem desperate for closure? Or at least for spinning around in great, beautiful circles? It seems like it should be about redemption. They even describe it as some great revelation on loss and love and moving past and moving on. Sounds real moving, doesn't it? To be honest, though, I felt uncomfortable reading it. It was trying trying too hard. All those busy words, happy-feely worlds? LaCour was determined to fulfill them all, and that was just too much to manage in 250 pages or less.

It was as if LaCour threw an entire season of an ABC Family drama in a blender and then dumped it all on the rather-innocuous narrator. There was too much happening at once. Every teenage stereotype and cliche was introduced and swiftly brushed over. All that was missing was a calorie-counter struggling with an eating disorder. It felt messy, trite, dull. Even the narrator seemed bored. There was no journey, no moving forward. There was just jumping from scene to scene, each chapter sounding more and more like a bad public service announcement.

Don't cut yourself, it says. Don't have sex with strangers in seedy parks. Don't ignore your parents. Don't judge people. Don't suddenly take off your shirt and make out to feel better. Don't not talk about it.

Do build a tree house with your bare hands.

It was dizzying, reading it. It was excessive. I almost think it would have played out better on television, that the characters would have made more sense in a serial where various eccentricities and unfinished story lines could have played out, all while dramatic music purrs in the background. As is, the novel fails to impress. There were scenes. Snippets. But nothing tied them together. And most of it never played out.

Like the snotty queen bee who had a couple useless interactions with the main character. Or the friend of a friend of her boyfriend who suddenly shared a private moment with her at the end that just made no sense. Or the fact that her new friend's a lesbian, and that matters to everyone in the beginning but not later. Then there's the teacher's strange and overwrought version of mourning. And how her parent's handle her. Or the suicide's sibling (I think it was) suddenly showing up to ask about music. The suicide's parent's hug that lasts an entire page. There's the random bad girl at school she hangs out with for two pages. Or the other random girl she gets jealous of when she sees her with her new/ex/old/new friend. How she knows how to build a tree house. How her boyfriend doesn't know this key fact. How they all brush over revelations in little snippets of dialogue that just lead into another hasty kiss. There's the production of Romeo and Juliet. The old theater. The old theater being torn down. The million cups of coffee. The photography. The driving. The making out shirtless. Even the journal.

Rest assured, for all that, there is no pay off. If it's confusing sounding, be sure it's even worse reading it. Nothing was ever fleshed out. So much was never explained. I never knew why I should care. If it was just LaCour's way of setting a realistic scene, it backfired. I've never trudged through something that felt so entirely contrived. Even the main plot point--the suicide due to depression and the journal that reveals it--felt flat, unimportant, unexplained. I wasn't satisfied. It just fell together and...then it ended. It wasn't sad; it was mostly disturbing. And I was bored.

A novel wasn't the right form for this story to take. It was so poorly done from start to finish that it can't even settle for being a disappointment. That suggests good expectations and hopes that were just never met. But, no, this book was no only completely unsatisfying, it was a disaster.I threw it in the trash, actually. Because, for three bucks, that's exactly where it belongs.

No wonder kids hate to read.

Verdict, No. 2

Play Off

I was very much off. I should just leave it at that to spare my ego. But I won't.

First, it wasn't serious at all--it tried to be comedic and clever. There was actually a lack of melodrama and passion with the focus all on these eccentric sisters and their "witty" jokes. And there was far too much magic in it, like the freaky kind where everything happens at once and it's utter nonsense for the last few chapters before everything manages to return to normal. 

The romance? Well, she was expected to marry without a choice as to whom. And she was unhappy with that. And she did fall in love with someone almost unsuitable, but that was a side story to her other sisters' love interests. Really, her man was adorable, but as with most YA, there seems to be no real chemistry--it just had to happen that way for the plot. But that would have been forgivable had there been any sort of...romantic moment. I'm pretty sure she just curtsied. Yeah.

The villain was looking for revenge. And it was dark. And he did expect something in return. And he definitely abuses the girls' naivety. And he did try to kiss the main girl. But then it just got weird. And my vague guess can't be considered correct because it was just...crazy.

Final Score

Predictability: Besides the fact that the cover through me off--way off--once you got into the book, it was so predictable. I knew what was going to happen before any of the characters did. And most of them had no reason to do what they did, only that they were meant to do it. Because that was the plot. 

Power: Her dialogue is her strong suit. The characters felt real, even if they were cliche. It felt like something I'd read before, even if the plot took a what-the-crap-this-is-way-too-weird turn.  

Proposal: If you enjoy a softer (read: boring) romance with a gentle (read: dry) plot, go ahead. It's definitely for a younger set, or those who worshipped The Goose Girl. I mean, it wasn't bad...it just wasn't all that good either.