Interlude - Boohoo Babies and More Failure

Another quarter, and still the failure persists.

At a cool 42 books, I'm on course for a grand total of 52 by the end of the year. To make my goal, I would have to read 48 more books. For you number people out there, that's just over 4 books a week. 4 BOOKS A WEEK.

I'm going to reaaaallllly go out on a limb and say that's probably not going to happen.

But, no matter. I persist! I have a list of 95 books on my to-read list, and I want to get through them ALL, at least before the day I die.

Hmmm...new goal/new blog/new format for the big 20-19?

Maybe...

May...be...

Anyways...on to the boohoo babies of this quarter! I'm warning you, this is a long one. I deserted a fair few shitty books. Feel like hearing someone else rant about bad writing? Read on!

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness by Arundhati Roy I so wanted to love this book. Has that ever happened to you? You can see the kernels of greatness and you want to get caught up in them...but just can't?

Yeah.

The language is rich and colourful, and the story wants to unfold - but keeps getting caught on these long-ass tangents, which then spiral off into other tangents (tangents UPON TANGENTS) to the point where I just can't do it anymore. It's a shame, really. At various points, the rambling, flowing nature of the narrative is interesting and different. But when we end up deep in the lives of random people off the sidewalk that really have nothing to do with the main, more engaging characters, I just don't care enough to enjoy the discovery. The reader is barraged by detailsdetailsdetails, and not given enough time to let them sink in.

Didn't even make it through half the book. It was just too much work. So...SEE YA.

Pathologicalby Jinkang Wang

Now, I don't know if my issues with this book are a product of poor translation, but one way or another I just could - not - DO IT. The writing is clear enough, but the language is so beep bop boop that every interaction among characters, or any look into one of their heads, feels painfully forced. The writing just feels sooooo juvenile, like a young alien without any exposure to human interaction is trying to write about mature relationships. At the very beginning of the story, a member of some shadow organization (who happens to be this stunningly gorgeous woman) visits an academic to gain...well, something, from him that will further the goals of said organization (look, I said I didn't get that far). The academic isn't sure if he wants to give this thing to her, so she stays with him for a few days while he decides. Naturally she uses this time to clean up his eccentrically nasty apartment. Naturally she also enjoys cooking, wow!, and makes him these huge traditional meals while he appears to do nothing but loaf around and be smart. And, naturally, after about a day of living together, they go swimming to cool off or unwind or some inane reason they've been assigned by the author, and she casually gets naked. So, of course, then they just have to fuck. And, wouldn't you know if, she boinks like a pro but he's the only man she's ever been with. BLEGH.

After ploughing (PUN INTENDED. PUN. IN. TEN. DED.) through these groan-inducing scenes, I tried to appreciate the plot itself, which does show a shred of promise, but the stilted, The Room-esque dialogue and the cardboard characters were just too overwhelming to go on.

LATER ALLIGATOR.

The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood Oh, Atwood.

I have such a love/hate relationship with this woman. Some of her work is so inventive (hello, Handmaid's Tale, The Left Side of Darkness, and Oryx and Crake), but this novel is an example of what I think is too much Atwood, not enough of her editor. The part that I did struggle through - which in the end was not that much but felt like an eternal battle - is overwrought and self-serving. Atwood's language is typically quite sparse, and the magnificence of her writing lies in the stillness of her prose. In The Blind Assassin, however, this simplistic style becomes just boring as the reader is subjected to an old woman bemoaning her oldness, hinting at some revenge, and then continuing to lament her wrinkly face and the way everyone treats her like a child.

Had to give up on this one. There are just too many other wonderful stories waiting to be read.

SARRY.

The Unexpected Everything by Morgan Matson

After the emotional storm of Eileen Myles' memoir, I wanted something light and breezy to give myself an emotional break. Something I could devour without thinking too much; enjoy without committing an extensive amount of energy.

Instead, I was pushed into absolute rage mode at how terrible the book is.

RAGE MODE! RAAARR!!!

The writing? Subpar. It feels laboured, like an inexperienced writer that overwrites everything with nothing words. Look at this: "He had dark brown hair that was cut short and neatly combed and dark brown eyes." First off, where is the punctuation, please? And how dark brown? Is there an auburn sheen in the sunlight, or is it jet black? What does "cut short" even mean? Short on the sides, long on time? Buzzcut? Does he have that really thick, bristly hair that sticks up straight? Oh, sure, and toss in his dark brown eyes. What emotion are they conveying? Are they big? Small? What about eyelashes? I just can't believe that sentence has made it into a published book.

Plot? Convenient. When her internship falls through and she can't line anything else up, Andie finds herself answering a bulletin board ad that doesn't even describe what work its for - can she not find ANYTHING else besides this sketchy job posting (btw what century is this from? Have you heard of our lord and saviour, the INTERNET??), like a retail or serving job? - oh and then she does mention working at her favourite coffee place, but would rather pursue this elusive, extremely sketchy bulletin board job rather than "sink to" a barista. C'MON.

I know this book is supposed to be a light, YA experience, so holding it to any kind of high literary standard is unfair. The standard I use is the Dessen Scale (i.e. a scale I just made up, based on the fantastic YA work of Sarah Dessen, which composes the literary soundtrack of my troubled youth), and this book doesn't even come close to that level of entertainment nor downright writing skill.

BUH. BYE.