Oh Mr. Coben--You've Now Fooled Me Once

Fool Me Once: A Review

I have to begin by saying that I adore Harlan Coben. Whilst I've read virtually everything the man has ever written, it is perhaps the antics of Myron Bolitar which appeal to me most. The humor in those novels is always beautifully woven into the intricate plot lines, and the pages just seem to turn themselves. Perhaps it is my love of those pieces that prejudiced me when reading Fool Me Once. I just didn't close the book feeling any sense of resolve or satisfaction. The loose ends were certainly tied up; the plot was extremely well written; and the realistic dialogue was typical Coben--fast paced and shot from the proverbial hip. What seemed to pervade every page, however, was an overwhelming sense of despair--a dispiriting shroud of gray that only allowed momentary snapshots of color and substance to bleed through the desolation. 

Maya is a recently widowed ex-military pilot who married into a wealthy matriarchal family. She is suffering from PTSD that is fueled by her own guilt, stemming from an incident of which we become aware in bits and pieces as the story progresses. Her mission is no longer of the military variety but rather to unravel the murder of her husband, which incidentally had followed on the heels of her sister's brutal murder.

Each character to whom we are introduced seems to be tainted by death and self-destruction, with the exception of Lily, Maya's daughter. She is the only glimpse of joy we see and the only splash of color in the otherwise monochrome landscape. From Isabella, the nanny, to Maya's sister-in-law Caroline, every single player in this maze of chaos and lies is tainted with character flaws that are predictive of their eventual downfall. At the close of the final chapter, I was left unable to feel any empathy for any of them. They all played a part in the bleak and disturbing climax, when the plot is finally turned on its head and the truth is revealed. 

If you're looking for a plot that twists and turns, and you don't mind the lack of any joy, you may really enjoy this. Technically, it certainly reflects the artistry of Coben. If, however, you read Coben for his infusion of humor as well as his ability to tell one hell of a story. you might want to keep looking. I'm still depressed.

I Want a Roarke

Obsession in Death

I love JD Robb (aka Nora Roberts) and have read each of the books in the In Death series. I actually look forward to seeing what Eve and Roarke are up to, and I enjoy keeping tabs on Mira, Nadine, Peabody and Mavis. This novel followed suit with previous offerings from Robb in that Dallas once again finds herself at the center of a series of killings. This time the killer is sending messages directly to Eve by leaving her messages on the walls at the crime scenes. Targeted are those whom the killer believes in some way have wronged Eve--and he (or she) is delivering vigilante justice.

The premise is full of potential, and for the most part Robb takes full advantage. The dialogue is pointed and direct, the infused humor is subtle and delivered with dead pan overtones and the characters stay true to personalities Robb has bestowed upon them. For some reason, however, I found the plot to lag a bit. I didn't feel that tension or suspense that generally grabs me with the series, nor did I see much development or growth in any character we've come to know. There were no revelations or epiphanies, and the climax was, for me, rather anti-climatic.

With that said, I still enjoyed the read. Robb is truly a master of the written word, and I enjoy reading just to roll through the brilliant craftsmanship. I'm not sure if that interest, however, is sustainable through any more slow-moving plots.  If this is your first Robb read, don't be discouraged. Pick up an older volume in the In Death series and try again. You won't regret it.  Oh, and if you know a guy who meets the Roarke criteria (gorgeous, wealthy, Irish and devoted). Please leave his address in the comments below.  ;).

The Unreliable Narrator Exemplified--Charlotte Bogan's The Lifeboat

The Lifeboat

I read this with some hesitation. I had perused several of the more negative reviews and wondered if it was worth the investment of time. I am so glad I made a leap of faith. I will admit that for the casual reader, this piece might very well fall short. The characters are one-dimensional, the plot is focused to the point of tunnel vision and the action ebbs and flows in unpredictable waves of disconnect. Closer examination, however, reveals that the perceived shortcomings are exactly those things that make this novel a masterful look at the mind of a narcisist engaged in looking back through a lens of indignation and entitlement.

Grace's troubled childhood, defined in her mind by her father's suicide and her mother's subsequent break down, has taken its toll by the time she finds herself stranded on the lifeboat, and it is only after her rescue that she tells the story of her humble beginnings as well the events that led her to be adrift in the sea. When detailing her past, Grace's sense of immediacy in terms of escaping the life of relative poverty into which she was thrust when her parents "checked out" leads her to Henry. Henry is of wealth, and it is through coverage of his activities in a local newspaper that Grace first "sees" him. She knows at once that he is her ticket to the life of privilege to which she feels entitled. While her sister is a *gasp* "working girl" (making her way as a nanny), Grace sees herself as being above that and instead hatches a plan pulled straight from a popular fairy tale to ensnare the wealthy Henry. If we are to believe Grace, after the initial deceit is wrought she actually does fall in love with the man. There, however, is the rub--are we to believe Grace? Did Henry fall in love with her and pledge his everlasting commitment? Did he eventually, as her husband, lead her to a lifeboat, making a mysterious deal with the devil along the way? Was Grace completely in the dark as to those details? Were the two truly married? Her story is full of veiled pleas to take her at her word, and we, as readers, must make the decision to play along if we are to appreciate the enormity of her seemingly depthless self-deception. It is difficult, however, to decide whether or not even Grace believes what she puts forth as "gospel". Is she trying to convince us...or herself? Once the reader realizes that he has the ability to see beyond Grace's portrayal of her reality, the read becomes an exercise in discerning truth from fiction and separating what Grace would have liked to have happened from what truly happened. The realization that the entire piece is a diary of events presented to her lawyers (trying to exonerate her for events that took place on the lifeboat)gives us an "ah ha!" moment that will have you rereading in an effort to unravel what truly occured.

For me, the events in the lifeboat itself are secondary. While one could make a case for "man against the sea", for me it read more like a psychological case study into the mind of a woman desperate to come out looking more human than she had been. The circumstances are harsh, but the author doesn't dwell on those, and instead relates them dispassionately through Grace's recollections, which are full of "intent".

If you are looking for rich character development and a plot you can sink your teeth into (pun intended), this probably isn't the book for you. If, however, you are looking to think as you read--if you are ready to be challenged in an effort to understand the truth, then this is a MUST read.

Broken Promise--Barclay Just Doesn't Deliver On His

Please let me begin with a disclaimer. I'm a fairly easy going gal. I don't throw temper tantrums, I seldom raise my voice and it takes a whole lot to make me angry. It is at this point that I would like to congratulate Linwood Barclay for raising my ire AND my blood pressure.


Let's start with the premise--well, the center stage premise.   David Harwood is an out of work journalist, as well as a single father.  Through a series of ill-fated circumstances, he finds himself living with his parents.  When his mother asks him to deliver some food she's prepared to a grieving cousin, David reluctantly agrees.  Marla, the in-mourning cousin, recently lost s baby in child birth.  She also lost a bit of her cognitive awareness and lives in the fringes of society, writing bogus reviews for a paycheck.  When David arrives, he finds Marla feeding a baby--a baby she swears was delivered to her by an angel.  When the baby's parents are discovered, the mother has been brutally murdered.  The rest of the novel follows Marla, David and the police as they try to untangle the identity of the murderer. 

I will concede that Barclay is one of those rare writers who excels in character development, and this book is no exception. Every single player here, from Marla, the broken woman with more than a few issues, to David, is believable. What I most appreciate about Barclay's work is his ability to keep each character's actions/dialogue and reactions true to the persona he creates. Nothing is arbitrary, but rather each character interaction furthers that brilliant development and encourages empathy or enmity--occasionally, as in the case of Agnes, simultaneously.

I will also offer props to Barclay for his ability to weave a plot and be able to follow it. He must have a very large storyboard somewhere, as that would have been the ONLY way I could have kept up, as beyond the Marla storyline there are myriad others that meander through this novel like a lost child who never finds his way home. It's a sad commentary when the lack of a graphic interface prevents the reader from being able to fully enjoy the story. Ok, major spoilers are to come, so reader, beware! You've been warned.

Barclay, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? From the very start, I made a conscious effort to follow the Marla thread. I appreciated how it had woven into its tapestry the threads of Dr. Strauss, the doctor who delivered the still born child, and the Gaynors, the baby's parents.  No, really, that was awesome. But there were other threads...loose threads. Threads that kept me page turning to find out how they were to be related. So why am I angry? BECAUSE THEY NEVER CAME TOGETHER. There were vague suggestions of personal issues never resolved, overt declaration of issues that were never explained, and characters who had agendas that in no way related to the main plot.  Instead of bringing it all to some related conclusion, Barclay strings us along for a wild ride that ends in the middle of a damn desert--barren and thirsting for the hours it took to read this novel to be returned in some time-travel scenario. What? It's about as ridiculous as assuming the reader would in any way be content. So, Mr. Barclay, if by chance you're reading, I have a few suggestions and questions.

1. If this was a sequel piece of which understanding and appreciation came with a prereading prerequisite, TELL THE READERS BEFORE THEY BUY THE BOOK.
2. What the hell was up with David's father, Don? Why was he so sullen? What did Walden say to upset him?
3. What the hell was up with Trevor's father, Barry? What did Finley have on him?
4. Why add Arlene's leg injury? What purpose did it serve?
5. Who killed the squirrels?
6. Who put the mannequins on the ferris wheel? 
7. Who killed Rosemary?
8. Who killed Olivia?

There's a start. I've left out questions about the banality of including the extramarital affair of Marla's father (Carol/Gill nonsense); about Fenwick's phone conversation that appeared to be leading to gratuitous phone sex; about the quick lay at Sam's; the number 23: the Thackery College asshats. My GOD, the list is endless.

For me, this read like an installment of a serial story, like those that used to appear, one chapter at a time, in various publications. The difference here is that folks waited impatiently, prognosticating and predicting, full of great anticipation for those serial pieces. With this book, I've abandoned all hope on this bait and switch and will be seeking my closure in a stand alone novel that actually comes to a conclusion. 

After the Read...Gould's After The Cure

After The Cure

I just turned the last page in this post-apocalyptic novel. I must admit to being of two minds here. Generally, I am a tough critic, able to pinpoint the weaknesses of a piece of fiction whilst also being able to recognize its merits and thereby coming down on one side of the love/hate critique. This one, however, has me straddling middle ground. On one hand, I was glad to reach the end, as I felt that some of the details were becoming tedious. On the other hand, I was sad to say Bon voyage to Nella and Frank.

The plot of this piece is one that's been done, but this author adds a breath of fresh air to the whole flesh-eating zombie genre. Here, the infected are cured, but retain the memories of their days spent wantonly lunching on friends and family. The resulting prejudices and societal biases are far too symbolic of our current climate to be ignored, if, indeed, that was the author's intent. In any case, some of the scenes reflect those precipitated by racial tensions today and hit the mark both physically and emotionally. The divide between the Cured and the Immune stretches far and wide.

This story comes with some of the genre-specific requirements somewhere written in the rules to penning apocalyptic fiction. There are, as mentioned, still roving hordes of zombies eager for a meal; there are those either cured or immune trying to elude these zombies; and there's a secondary love story to tug the heart strings. Surprisingly, all of these elements work here without appearing cliche. The plot moves quickly for the first 3/4 of the book, and at times the reader feels like they've been taken along for one hell of a ride. This author excels at dialogue, which is a good thing, as there's a lot of it.

Here's where things fell short. That amazing dialogue is delivered by characters who, for me, fell a little flat. For several reasons, I never fully "invested", which I think is the reason for my critical ambivalence. First, while we learn Frank's back story, it's not nearly with enough detail to develop any empathy. The same holds true for Nella, and even more so for Dr. Pazzo and Dr. Schneider. The former was seemingly non existent before the plague, whilst the two latter were inconsistent in their actions. Perhaps a starting place for them would have at least explained their behaviors. For example, what motivated Dr. Pazzo to engage in this type of work? Was there something personally motivating him to work on the bacteria? Were he and Ann together long? How serious was it? In order to feel the connection, I would have needed more from them--more of what they were before the plague, of how they ended up where they were when the plague struck. Did Frank.have siblings? What about Nella's parents? What became of them? I wanted to feel what they were feeling, but without a place of reference to who they were, it was difficult to relate to who they had become.

The last third of the book failed for me because I hadn't established those character connections necessary in order to fully appreciate the gravity of their situations. I wanted to find out more about Frank and Nella before they sailed off, but I was also eager to say adios, as I had all but given up hoping for those details.

As The Trilogy Dies--A Book One Only Read

"As the World Dies" is a post-apocalyptic trilogy written by Rhiannon Frater, fraught with zombies, pms and unlikely romance.  A female protagonist takes the lead in this sometimes silly, often times frustrating tryst into the future--where the dead walk the streets in search of...well, dinner.

Jenni, clad in a pink bath robe, has just watched her husband Llody gorge on Benji, her infant son, in a bloody feast.  As she races for the front door, her eldest son sacrifices himself to save her as Lloyd closes in, jaws snapping.  This is the brutal beginning of an undead trilogy that, for me, raised some serious concerns about the entire zombie-lit genre.

I'll admit right up front that I don't read much with "reanimated" characters.  Oh sure, I'm a huge fan of The Walking Dead, although I came to the party late and watched the initial seasons via On Demand.  When it comes to my reading material, however, I've developed a penchant for apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic lit whilst still managing to skirt the involvement of zombies.  I tell you this because, in the end, it may be that Frater has simply followed protocols of the genre with which I am unfamiliar.  ::shrug::

Book One of the As The World Dies series, The Final Days, was, for me, a quick read.  Zombies invade; strangers become friends; survivors gather together to rebuild.  It was a nicely wrapped, neat little package.  The only thing missing was the bow to tie it all up.  That, I assumed would be accomplished via the second and final installments, Fighting to Survive and Siege   Eh.  Not so much.  Some of the characters became stereotypic in nature, acting, accordingly, in a manner that ended up banal and predictable. Additionally, the plot was, at times, exceedingly slow.  As this isn't a dissertation, I will spare you those details, but I do want to share two points that are at the root of my whole "Is this a genre thing?"question.

First, Frater offers us a chapter told entirely from the perspective of....wait for it...Jack the German Shepherd.  The reader is subjected to Jack's seemingly insatiable appetite and quest for Oreos, as well as his ongoing trepidation at having to ride in an elevator.  I barely made it through the chapter.  Now if this is a genre point, writing from the perspective of domesticated animals, I must take issue with whomever is writing the rule book.  If, however,this was a choice by Frater to move "outside the box", I will just say "no".  Just.  No.

The second point of contention for me is perhaps one of degrees of believability.  Bear with me here.  So I buy into the whole "the dead walk again" thing.  I'm even persuaded to suspend my disbelief as such to include zombies becoming flesh-eating predators.  Where I draw the line, however, is then crossing over into the realm of the supernatural, complete with mediums and talking ghosts who prognosticate with stunning accuracy. Now THAT I'm just not buying.  Yes, yes, I know--once you accept the whole dead/not dead premise, the rest should be a piece of cake.  Unfortunately, I choked trying to swallow it.  Again, a genre rule?  Does it say somewhere in the "How to Write a Zombie Novel" handbook that ghosts are par for the course?  If so, for the love of God, would someone please do a rewrite?!

All in all, Book One is worth the read--with one caveat.  Don't expect that bow on the package.  Just revel in the open ending.  The remaining books in this trilogy will leave you wanting to hang yourself by the ribbon that is offered.

For the Love of Books: Why I Covet My Kindle

When I was a child, we had a single bookshelf in the hallway where the entrances to all of the bedrooms met. It was all my parents could afford, but it was stocked with dad's tattered paperbacks, a complete set of Nancy Drew and the odds and ends mom would pick up at garage sales. Once a week, we would also visit the local Book-Mobile, where I was permitted to take out as many books as I could read in a week. I would devour them well before the week was up, and it was always with a heavy heart that I would return them. Sure I got to take out new ones, but parting with those I had read seemed a betrayal--I wanted to covet them; protect the characters within and revisit them on occasion. Instead, however, I would see the ones I had read previously sitting lonely on the shelves. I would go home and look at our single bookshelf which housed my most precious possessions--the books that BELONGED to me. I swore that one day I could own a huge library and cover the walls with the books I read. I would provide a safe place for the settings and characters who had befriended me through the pages.
As time moved on and I grew up, my love affair with books grew more passionate. Perhaps it was the childhood memory of the characters I left on those shelves, but that feeling of some sense of betrayal at returning a book remained. Rationally, I knew it was a ridiculous and a wholly immature view of the world, but I still longed to be surrounded with the comfort with which those books had provided me. My first apartment was furnished on a shoe-string, but the thing I initially sought was a huge bookshelf. I adorned it with dad's tattered paperbacks and the Nancy Drew series from my childhood. From there, I searched garage sales and flea markets for other books I remembered having read as a child and added those. In college, I was loathe to sell back my textbooks, and instead made them a part of the collection. By the time I left college, I had acquired a plethora of books I couldn't possibly afford to move with me. At that same time, I went through a reverse-renaissance of sorts and tried to convince myself that I needed to minimize the clutter in my life. The books went into boxes and off to Goodwill--including dad's paperbacks and the precious set of Nancy Drew mysteries. It wasn't until months later that I realized, with great horror, that I had parted with things that meant more to me than I could have ever realized at the time. My reversal of self had a devastating effect that left me feeling lonely, sad and ultimately somehow deprived.
Eventually, I married (a couple of times in fact) and settled into my career as an English teacher. My longing to be surrounded by books resurfaced, though with it came a wholly limiting environ--no room for much beyond, again, a single bookshelf for myself. At school, I had the pleasure of being able to line my classroom with literature, but at home, with the empty spaces ever filling with "needed" things, the single bookshelf sufficed.
When I was first introduced to the Kindle, I rebelled. I wanted the feel of a book in my hands--I wanted to SMELL the pages. That quickly dissipated, however, shortly after I downloaded my first book. When I finished it, I purchased my second--then a third, fourth, etc. I realized that I was suddenly able to have the comfort of being again surrounded by familiarity while at the same time I now had no limitations as far as space! I looked back at the ten or so books I had read on my Kindle and felt RICH! I had the characters and stories with me. I could glance at the titles and remember being immersed in those worlds. It was liberating. I had the opportunity to create the library of my childhood dreams and finally make good on my promise to those characters I had abandoned on the shelves of that Book Mobile so many years ago.
And so, my Kindle carries on it every book I have read since it was purchased--a library that has been transferred from my K2i to my K3. I buy them one at a time, read them voraciously, then allow them to assume their rightful place on the virtual shelf. I see them every time I open my Kindle, and I will often browse the pages, smiling as I recall the stories those titles hold. They haven't been relegated to collections or archives; they haven't been deleted or held in someone else's library--they are mine and stand at the ready to, at any given moment, again reveal to me the treasures within their covers.