Since the book hasn’t been released yet, this will be a spoiler-free review. Full review to follow.
Ron Howard has already optioned the film rights and it’s easy to see why. TGB is a sharp psychological thriller about obsession, control, and trauma in a fresh, new setting. While I wasn’t quite enamored with the conclusion of the book, I for the most part loved the story.
The main characters of Jane and Emma were interesting and fleshed out and complex- no stereotypes here! The book and its complex characters kept me guessing, and even though I figured out the mystery, it didn’t put a damper on my enjoyment of the story. The chapters were short, interesting and kept me engaged.
One big complaint for me would be the title. There’s already a book called The Girl Before, and with Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train, the “girl” tag for grown women is odd and frankly, getting kind of old.
I immensely enjoyed The Girl Before. It was well-written and engrossing, with fascinating characters. By the way, Jane has Emily Blunt written all over her!
Originally posted on GoodReads
I received an epub edition of this book from the publisher and NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
Carousel Court is a contemporary Revolutionary Road, a bleak, depressing tale about Nick and Phoebe, a couple on the edge of implosion during the recession. As a big fan of McGinniss and his debut novel The Delivery Man, I was excited to get my hands on this one.
Mr. McGinniss’ prose remains distinctive and strong, his writing is what actually kept me reading, as was the case with his first.
I cannot exactly say I enjoyed the book, for its darkness was overwhelming at times. However, it’s not a negative attribute of the book. I found the novel engrossing and very well-written, but I found myself having to put it down because of how emotionally draining it was.
On the flip side, the novel’s only redeeming and likeable character seemed to be Nick and Phoebe’s son. Every single character was unlikeable and pathetic to the point of finding myself getting severely annoyed. While I love dark characters, Carousel Court pushed my tolerance, and it is a testament to McGinniss’ skill and talent that I was able to keep reading. The novel also felt overly long and dragged in a couple of places.
I loved The Delivery Man, however, I didn’t love Carousel Court. With that said, it was still a solid novel and I will eagerly read the next work McGinniss puts out.
Originally posted on GoodReads
ARC from NetGalley:
“I Don’t Have a Happy Place” is one of those books you get, not really knowing what you’re in for. The book’s content is directly in its title: “Cheerful Stories of Despondency and Gloom,” and yet that doesn’t really prepare you for what you get: darkly funny, sometimes morbid, sometimes sad, tales of life. Kim Korson’s voice is dry and matter-of-fact, and that alone makes some of the more out-there lines hilarious (one of my favorites comes from ‘Be Careful Out There’ – “If a bad guy were to come all the way up 128 stairs to disembowel me, it would be because he was looking for me specifically”).
Perhaps I enjoyed “I Don’t Have a Happy Place” so much because I do have a dark sense of humor, in addition to suffering from depression, so there were many events and lines of the book which had me chuckling or outright laughing.
I admit I knew nothing of Kim Korson when I first requested the book- it was in fact the title which caught my eye. However, after reading “I Don’t Have a Happy Place…” I will definitely be looking out for more of Korson’s work in the future. Her voice is a refreshing dip into murky waters, and I mean that in the best possible way!
Thank you to Gallery Books and NetGalley for giving me the opportunity to review.
Originally posted on GoodReads.
For this prompt:
She learned to ignore them at an early age. Disregarded them when they flitted in at the corner of her eye, ignored the whispers at her ear, learned not to stiffen when the cool air hit the back of her neck. It was all training exercises, really. Filter out all of the things which made her hair stand on end, nervous electricity prickling on her soles, readying her to take off like a deer after hearing that faraway gunshot.
Self-medicating happened from ages fourteen through twenty. Alcohol, pot, coke, pills, sex. It took an embarrassingly long time to realize the drugs just made them appear more frequently and sometimes worse than when she was sober. Sex helped until she opened her eyes. There was no rehab, no hospital, she just stopped all of the above. The last thing she needed was to be locked away, any sort of constriction would be open season for them.
And so she took up running with headphones on, music blasting to stop the hissing. When she ran fast enough, she could disregard the dark blurs as she dashed past. Eventually, they learned how to force static in. They didn’t like being ignored.
Sometimes they leave scratches on her doors
She got a boyfriend, an understanding guy, who didn’t push her when she flinched under his hand and learned to not whisper around her. He suggested a therapist and when she refused, didn’t push. When she turned on all the lights in the apartment and watched the windows, he never called her crazy, just quietly suggested they go to bed or eat dinner and maybe in the morning, they could go see Doctor Morris. It was different, having someone who didn’t understand but was willing to try. When it was time, she found him hanging and of course the police would say suicide but it’s impossible to hang yourself with your arms broken, wasn’t it?
She ran from the apartment without calling 911, she was sure her wailing alerted their neighbors anyway. The streets were glistening from the rain, the water blurring her vision and making the traffic and car and street lights bounce and whirl and dance in her speeding vision. When she turned around the corner to toward the park, she stumbled as she stopped in her tracks, seeing them standing there, waiting, because it was her time.
They stood there, black shadows, their eyes, where their eyes would be, glowing, glowing, glowing red.
She didn’t feel terror, just dread, because this wasn’t going to be quick and when the shuddering gasp escaped her, they smiled, glowing…glowing…glowing…red.
For this prompt:
The walk home is a short one. A well-traveled one.
Get off the train, cross the street. Walk two blocks down, make a right. Cross the street, cross the park. Walk by the trees and beautifully-lit lake and stray dog. Emerge from the park back into the city. Walk down another block, turn left. Another block and there’s the apartment. Up two flights and there’s home.
She feels odd one day, her head hurts, her vision blurs. After a migraine hits, she excuses herself from her desk, decides to go home, would apologize the next day.
It’s dark out, she thought it had been light inside, and she walks to the train and makes the usual ride.
Get off the train, cross the street. Walk two blocks down, make a right. Cross the street, cross the park. Walk by the trees and beautifully-lit lake and there’s no stray dog. Emerge from the park back into the city. Walk down another block, turn left. Another block and get off the train.
Cross the street. Walk two blocks down, make a right. Cross the street, cross the park. Walk by the trees and beautifully-lit lake, no stray dog. Emerge from the park back into the city. Walk down another block, turn left and get off the train.
Walk two blocks down, make a left. Cross the street, cross the park. Walk by the trees and lake. Emerge from the park back into the city. Walk down another block and get off the train.
Walk four blocks down, make a left. Cross the street, cross the park. Walk by the lake. Emerge from the park back into the city where there’s no more people now. Walk down the street and there’s the train.
A slow, anxious panic begins to prickle at her, but she keeps walking. Eventually, she will make it home.
Cross the street, cross the long, dark park. Walk by the freezing lake. Emerge from the park back into the city where there’s no more people now. Walk down the street and there’s the train.
Cross the long, dark park. Walk by the freezing lake. Drop purse on the ground. Emerge from the park back into the city where there’s no more people now. Walk down the street and take off coat and there’s the train.
Walk by the freezing lake. Drop purse on the ground. Emerge from the park back into the city where there’s no more people now. Remove shoes. Walk down the street and take off coat and there’s the train.
Walk by the freezing lake. There’s the train.
Yesterday, I saw a documentary film called Dreams of a Life [watch the trailer here], starring a mesmerizing Zawe Ashton. Part documentary, part reenactment, it tells the story of Joyce Vincent, an English woman who died December 2003 surrounded by Christmas presents she was wrapping with the television on and whose body wasn’t discovered until 2006 when officials came to repossess the flat where she lay after the banking account automatically paying her bills finally ran out of money. Nothing was known about Joyce when she was discovered other than her name, not even a photo in the paper, and so the filmmaker sought out her friends and family through ads. Many began to call inquiring if it was “their Joyce” whom she was asking about.
The film examines “how did this happen?” through reenactments and interviews with Joyce’s friends, boyfriends and coworkers. Her family declined to be interviewed on camera, only giving a statement revealed in the behind the scenes documentary saying her estrangement was as much of a mystery to them as it was for the filmmaker (and my only real complaint being there were things in the behind the scenes documentary which should have been in the film).
Joyce Vincent was, through recollections, a popular, bubbly, poised woman whose beauty was noted by everyone interviewed. Any negativity is minimal, the worst being she tended to be lazy and didn’t like to clean. She was popular with men and women, with men wanting to date her and one friend saying she wanted to be her. For all intents and purposes, something like this should not have happened to someone like her.
Interviews with her friends prove to be baffling- they are quick to talk about her beauty and clothing and her love of singing and music, but they also admit to knowing very little of her life. As a friend states, “she had no past.” Joyce often didn’t want to talk of herself, which included doting sisters with whom she had become estranged, and she tended to become completely engrossed in her partners’ lives. Some knew of a violent relationship near the end of her life, and that she fled to a shelter, but nearly all seemed surprised to discover she had been living in a bedsit at the time of her death, as opposed to a middle class home. She lived in the present while hiding and lying about her private life, and growing more and more isolated as she entered her thirties. Even as her friends’ eyes shine bright with amusement and love when discussing her, the blankness and shock when the filmmaker talks about her private life is startling. Joyce Vincent, to even her friends, was an enigma.
The filmmaker makes the choice to only depict Joyce in reenactments, leaving photos to blurry glimpses. An all too brief audio file of her speaking jolts her friends when played, some becoming emotional, some laughing, some stunned, and one debating the authenticity of the file. The moment is an engrossing one, and along with the often laughing tales and affectionate smiles, show that Joyce was loved, which makes her end even more troubling.
Those expecting a resolution in the documentary are sure to be disappointed- the only conclusion is Joyce Vincent is gone, she continues to be a mystery, and her secrets and truth died with her. There are no answers, just more questions.
Dreams of a Life is a daunting, tragic document of the fragility of relationships, whether they be romantic, friendship or familial, self-isolation, the loneliness of illness and death, and how well do we really know and care for the people we love. The final shot in the film is haunting, and that, along with the film will likely stay with me for a while. It left me feeling different, and not in a good way. This is a film which will make you reexamine your connections with those you love and just how fragile life and our relationships can really be.
Veronica Mars is back for another case and it’s a doozy. Mr. Kiss and Tell was a highly enjoyable and quick read. The subject matter is extremely dark and authors Rob Thomas and Jennifer Graham handle the case with an appropriate sensitivity.
As in the first book, there’s strength in her interactions with her father and friends. Her interactions with both Logan and Weevil are given time to shine and shine they do. Specifically, Veronica’s relationship with Logan is one of maturity, love, and yes, a lingering sadness but it definitely works in all its (in their way) traditionally heartbreaking glory. Weevil’s entire plot is both heartbreaking and complicated and one I hope to see continue or at least spotlighted in future books.
Veronica herself is wonderful in MKAT. She maintains her signature fire and wit with an adult edge. She is still the moody, driven, complicated character we all grew to love in the show and film and she’s just a glorious heroine. Thomas and Graham do an excellent job of keeping her human and real.
The book definitely sets up future installments and I genuinely can’t wait for more if they choose to continue the series. I’ve already pre-ordered MKAT and this will very likely be one book I come back to.
Thank you to Doubleday for giving me the opportunity to review.
Originally posted on GoodReads.