So There’s a Book I Really Enjoyed

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If you’re into great writing, flawless pacing, and horrifying subject matter that may or may not destroy your faith in humanity, you’ll probably like it, too. It’s called “The Wish Doctor“, written by the most likely pseudononymous G.R. Sabian.

 

The book follows the exploits of a crazily rich and seemingly soulless man who, for no discernible reason (other than a near-supernatural compulsion that I suspect is rooted in a traumatic past) randomly grants violent wishes to miserable people – regardless of whether the misery is warranted, the person is good, or the wishes are deserved. As an example, he burns one family alive to satisfy the wishes of a disgruntled young scion.

 

On to other things.

 

Somehow, he crosses paths with a child prostitute named Jamie. (Can you guess where this is going?) Her deepest wish, naturally, is that the pimps and offenders all die. Our hero, Harry, accomplishes this and assumes his work is done.

 

Only it’s not.

 

First off, the child refuses to let him leave. Second, she (understandably) has many issues that make her a danger to herself and others. By necessity, she is a master manipulator and basically, they end up in a twisted, if mostly sincere, approximation of a parent/child relationship. On top of that, the two have some kind of weird, understated psychic connection.

 

I’ll be honest. First, this is most definitely not a book I wish I’d written. Second, I definitely did not write it (just want to throw it out there – I am a professional writer, but I do things like ad copy, product descriptions, and blog posts for small/midsize businesses. I want to be a novelist, but I’m too chicken as of now to put my work out there).

 

Third, the entire novel is extremely disturbing on several levels. Think graphic violence and a lot of implied abuse and memories. It isn’t for everyone. In fact, the entire book is basically one giant trigger. As good as it most certainly is, as fantastic as the writer him/herself is, I can sort of understand why it’s retailing for $1 USD.

 

That said, I’ve been trying to talk people into reading it since I first read it in July of 2014, but my efforts have been in vain (and I can sort of see why, after reading the above endorsement). So, after this, I’m honestly giving up. I just couldn’t let it go without a cursory post on my very own blog. G.R. Sabian, whoever she/he is, is a stunningly fantastic writer. Think the pacing and spare, impactful sentences of Dean Koontz with the eerie lyricism of Cormac McCarthy wrapped around Tarantino-level violence (without the absurdity) and the true-to-life, hard-to-stomach grit of “Taxi Driver”. It’s cinematic and oddly literary at once.

 

If you can tolerate this, please read it – mostly because it’s supposedly part of a series and I want to make sure it continues.

 

In case you missed the link the first time, here it is: The Wish Doctor by G.R. Sabian.

 

It’s just $1, folks. Pleeeeeeeease do this. For me.

Home Town

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Home Town, Olde Towne, Place of Many Oaks. I’d name you outright, except someone with the particular breed of vicious, blind, and intolerant loyalty you inspire in some people might decide to make even more trouble.

I don’t know how to begin. I suppose some people would say, “I hope you are proud of yourself, Home Town.” Except I don’t want you to be proud of yourself, and yet I know that you are.
 

What I want to do is remind you of some things.

Now, I know not everyone who lives in you is bad like you. After all, my best friend is from you. The most amazing and selfless teachers I have ever come across manage to live inside you. And don’t forget those neighbors came over once and shot a rattlesnake for me and my siblings while my parents were at work.

Likewise, not all memories of you are bad.

I think of breezy summer nights, of the last part of twilight when the heat of the day has just broken and the insects begin a deep and echoing song of intense loveliness. Of owls outside my windows, bats flapping papery wings as they snatch mosquitoes out of the darkness. Rolling hillocks of golden green grass. And in winter, leafless oak forests in the cold high moonlight, casting a jagged patchwork of shadows across snow that glittered under the vast canopy of stars.

You, Home Town, are synonymous with elementary school. School. I hated school. I still hate school. But the sweetness of those days lingers, especially on bright autumn afternoons, those hours when sunlight shines through everything and Halloween is just around the corner. Being poor and eating sandwiches off cardboard boxes in the sweltering summer evenings, doing homework in a little blue kitchen, and later, in a huge brown kitchen.

There’s more, so much more. Like spending half the summer festival in the pizza booth, doling out slices to tourists from across the country. Those tourists asking if I was actually American, because my face was so exotic. The laughter I got from that.

It’s strange, Home Town, but there are only ever snippets of memories. Everywhere else I have gone—camps and visiting family and going out of town—I have an almost photographic memory. But of you, I only ever have flashes. Strains of memory like an ancient melody on the wind. Weaving through the annual car show with my siblings, delighting in the seamless fusion of glittering retro bodies and thoroughly modern engines. Grade school yardsaling with my best friend and her mother, buying smudged ceramic unicorns and hideous vests with cats embroidered on them, then wearing those vests to pieces. Long mornings and endless afternoons in my mother’s office, listening to her explain how to do this, how to do that, the laws behind this, the reasoning for those. Oppressive afternoons, leafy spring mornings overflowing with yellow sunlight. Foggy mornings, rainy afternoons. I even remember an icy Christmas Eve, staring out the fogged window at quant downtown streets, admiring the decorations, and feeling melancholy that soon it would all be gone.

Those slow hours spent giggling with my first boss over the curly-haired grocery bagger who worked at the supermarket just across the plaza. Griping about awful customers, cracking jokes when the restaurant was empty. Listening to excruciatingly bad pop music every afternoon while we prepared the bread dough. I didn’t ever mind it, simply because it was so much fun to talk to her.

And later, though not much later, dog-day nights talking to my boyfriend, staying up far into the morning hours just to hear his voice from thousands of miles away.

These are the good things. There are probably a few more. I will give you that, Home Town. And I remember them.

But what about the other things?

What do you remember? I ask because surely, you do not bother to remember anything good.

Remember when one of your elementary schools barred my littlest brother from attending because he was epileptic? Remember how, in the last days before the district succeeded in finally foisted him out, the other parents told their children to stay away from him? Remember when one of your teachers broke every damned privacy and HIPAA law when she held a super secret squirrel meeting with all the other parents of all the other children in the classroom, and actually told them he was epileptic? That there was something wrong with him, and it wouldn’t be healthy for their precious, unmarred children to touch him? I swear, Old Town, your favorite era was the Middle Ages.

Remember when another sibling—the brilliant one, the autistic one, the most easily and fundamentally broken—was publicly belittled in class, day in and day out, by that awful hag of a teacher? He got so afraid, so stressed, he panicked all the time. It only got worse when she turned a blind eye to the physical abuse heaped upon him by other students. She could pretend nothing was happening, because he never told.

Remember when your hospital sent my last sibling home with organ failure? I think they told him to just go to urgent care the following Monday. If my parents had regarded their advice—if they hadn’t taken him to urgent care that night—he would have died. My parents spent hundreds of thousands of dollars rectifying the malpractice of your hospital.

And my sibling wasn’t the only one. Remember that man with the custom-made bumper sticker that read, “[Home Town] Hospital Killed My Wife. I Miss Her Alot?” I guess we’re just lucky he survived.

You won’t apologize, Home Town. You just shrug and point out that you did not, in fact, kill him.

Remember when your evangelistic, theologically-ignorant so-called Christians told my parents that their children were sick only because of sin? No comfort, no offer of prayer, certainly no modicum of support. Simply put, your people said, “If you were better people, this would not have happened. God does not do such things to His people.”

I suppose they forgot about Job. Lots of Christians do.

I wish I could. Because of you, and the repercussions of you, Job is on my mind a lot.

Continuing with the obtuseness of the churchgoers there, remember when my family was iced out of a local church because my parents, both hard-working people raising a gaggle of smart and good-hearted children, were not college graduates?

Remember when our neighbors, God-fearing churchgoers all, shunned us? Shunned us over the words of a histrionic, vicious bitch with a reputation for rumormongering. But she offered gossip, you see, a sensationalistic rumor. One of the Church’s great failings is gossip, Home Town. You know this. And you know the loudmouth whores always trump the meek. At least in hometowns, that is.

I don’t blame them as much anymore, though. If you can define a reason, however fraudulent, for terrible fortune, you can convince yourself it will never happen to you. By condemning us, they were assuring themselves that they were safe.

But never mind them. They were blind, and time and experience has taken a toll on some. They are learning.

But there is always worse. So here is ‘worse’:

Remember when my mom got a job at that long-corrupted, crippled home-town institution? Remember how she rose from part-time assistant to manager in a year? Remember how she raised that awful, sick old place with its awful, sick hometown boy crowd to a bustling full-time business? Remember how revenue increased ten-fold under her leadership? Even when the board of directors foisted one worthless, lazy, incompetent assistant (in most cases, their wives) after another upon her, she kept building it up. Made it a respectable business. And always, always fought the corruption.

And remember, when it was clear that after years and years that she would not give in to the board’s self-serving demands, would not and would never serve as an instrument to their appalling corruption—they chased her away?

Remember, once they ascertained certain things in their underhanded, hometown way, what they did to her?

Remember that?

Remember how no one cared and no one listened when your hometown people at your hometown school drove my fragile brother to an almost-successful suicide attempt?

And remember that time when I was not even ten? How your good old boy hometown man tried to kill us all in our sleep? If God Himself had not intervened, we would all be dead. He stopped you then. But He hasn’t stopped you lately. I wonder why, and try to figure it out. But all I come up with is Job. That scares me so bad, Home Town. Sometimes it does feel like I’ve lost everything. But I know that’s not true. There is still so much that can, and will someday be, gone.

I know you don’t care.

You only care that I left you. And so you’re reaching, still sending out hooks steeped in wrongness, misery, and—amazingly—beguilement.

Stop.

We are gone from you. We’ve shaken the dust of your rotted ground off our boots. Soon, we will run far and far and far from the state itself that spawned you. You’ve lost us.

You know what the worst part is? I think I will miss you. Or at least the memories.

You sure are something, Home Town. I will be sad when I reach the point that delineates the now from the then. When going back to you is a physical, as well as emotional, impossibility.

You know, there are days when I ponder our house, finally lost, empty.

Full only of hollow, howling wind in winter, of birdsong and the distant laughter of the neighbor children in the summer. Dogs barking and owls swooping in all seasons. The wild pigs whose grunts sound like the words of men, coming and going as patternlessly as the winds. I think of my pets, the ones who left, their little handmade graves covered in leaves and wild tufts of knee-high grass. I wonder if it is awful to be sleeping there as it was to be living.

Most of all I think how that empty and gutted place is still so full, not of life, but of whispers of memories, of ghosts. Ghosts of hideousness and achy suggestions of beauty. Phantoms of the frail threads of intense joy never quite extinguished by suffering.

Sometimes, I think I am that house.

Lately I know, with a certainty that drives down to my bones, that by the time I have truly, utterly, and completely thrown you off, there will be no house left.

And I know, always, that this makes you happy.

Trains

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If you wait at any given train station on a certain date, a train will appear that isn’t on any schedule. If you board the train you will find that the interior, regardless of the exterior, will be very elegant and old fashioned.

Have a seat and enjoy the train ride. The steam engine is beautiful: plush seats, exotic decor, gorgeous windows and elegant color schemes.

The crew are refined and very eager to please. The ticket takers engage you in conversation. Every half an hour or so, a waiter comes by to offer you the most select dishes.

The landscape rushing by outside is incredibly lush and lovely. Lakes and mountains, deep forests and pristine beaches. Don’t try to recognize any of it. Not a single tree or peak or grain of sand corresponds to any known geography.

You are not alone. The train is full of passengers. Some are dressed like you; some are in clothing you recognize as ceremonial and foreign; a few are dressed very elegantly, in luxurious fashions as least one hundred and fifty years out of date. Others sport fashions you do not recognize, and carry items—electronics? accessories?—that you have never even imagined.

When the train makes its fourth stop (this will take several hours), get off.  If you disembark beforehand, you will disappear. If you manage to return—and some do—you will only be capable of speaking a language completely unknown to our world. You will panic, and weep for days on end. You will not eat. You will pine for the world you left behind until you waste into nothing.

If you disembark after the fourth stop?

No one knows.

Just be aware that every once in a while, a hideously dismembered corpse is recovered from the rails near stations. Typically these bodies are rotted masses of meat only vaguely recognizable as human. Despite the decomposition and the mess, they appear very suddenly, often in the time it takes to blink.

Many of the victims remain unidentified due simply to the appalling state of the remains. Those identified, however, all had stained and battered train tickets on their person, dated days, weeks, even months and years prior.

People will tell you the victims tragically fell or even threw themselves into the rail wells.

But surely you know better.

Surreal, Delicate, and Fascinating: “Diving Belles and Other Stories” by Lucy Wood

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Lucy Wood’s “Diving Belles” is the best short fiction collection I’ve read in months, and the best new one I’ve read in years. Each story is inspired by, or a complete retelling, of a fairy tale. I have studied folklore, mythology, and fairy tales for years, so “Diving Belles” was extremely fun for me. Each story had a dreamy, surreal quality that I often associate with borderline-incomprehensible sequences, but one of the main delights of “Diving Belles” was that each story maintained this quality while providing a completely coherent, non-confusing tale. In my experience, at least, this is a rare talent.

These modern fairy tales can, I believe, be enjoyed by readers of nearly any age, but are definitely geared toward adults without being explicitly adult, which is very refreshing. There is a sweet melancholy present even in the darker tales, and that melancholy quality helps to ground each of these stories, however outlandish some may be.

Every story in the collection is well-done and lovely. I can’t pick apart a single piece as the weak link. This is an extremely strong debut by an author I will be following in years to come. It stands on both outright story merits and literary prowess. Please pick it up. This collection deserves a great deal of exposure.

The Familiar Formula With an Entertaining New Twist: Lincoln Child’s “The Third Gate”

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First off, I want to make it known that I read this book in about ten hours. It’s not a perfect novel, but it is still ten hours of incredible, lightning-paced fun.

“The Third Gate” is, to a great extent, the same type of novel Lincoln Child has been writing for a while. A team of explorers enters bold new territory in hopes of glory, discovery, riches, fame, or a combination of these, and is met instead with horror.

“The Third Gate” is different in that it deals not with the sort of monsters that have become Child’s forte, but a curse. Even better, it’s an ancient Egyptian curse. Child pulls this tired cliche with finesse. I was altogether pleased.

When world-famous archaeologist-turned-treasure hunter Porter Stone–who has been credited with the discovery of Camelot and the grave of the Celtic warrior queen Boudica, to name just two of his marvelous discoveries–determines the ancient gravesite of King Narmer. Narmer is the historically invaluable Pharaoh who united Upper and Lower Egypt thousands of years ago. It is literally the discovery of the century.

But there are problems.

The grave, thought to be lost for millennia, is buried deep in the Sudd: a thick, deadly, primeval swamp far along the Nile. The Sudd is treacherous, comprised in quicksand, rot-filled mud, and islands of rotten vegetation that began developing millenia before. It is an ancient and largely uncharted colossus, and presents infinite danger to Stone and his team.

Stone, a mastermind in his way, assembles a team with the ability and material to build a floating city on the Sudd while the site is excavated. There, he runs into more trouble: Narmer’s tomb is hundreds and hundreds of yards below the surface of the Sudd.

While he and his team work on building a way to tunnel safely beneath the surface, he has another team working on definitively pinpointing the exact location of the tomb. Cartographers and scholars work hand in hand with a psychic, who seems to be channeling an ancient spirit. In addition to the information Stone has requested, he receives dire warnings on behalf of the\is spirit, decrying their desecration of the holy site of the tomb, and warning of a terrible death by way of an ancient curse.

“The Third Gate” is so simple on so many levels, but many of Child’s trademark twists and turns in the plot are largely unpredictable. There is literally a surprise in every chapter, a new revelation that makes the mystery more and more difficult to decipher.

Child’s writing is solid. He has a gift for fast-paced action laced with horror, combined just enough (read: “barely”) plausibility and character depth to pull it off. There are no complaints on that front. While Child is not the most clinically adept or brilliant author, he harnesses tension and adventure masterfully. The majority of fans will not be disappointed with “The Third Gate,” and it should lead new fans to the rest of Child’s work.

My lone complaint was with the ending. It was not a poor ending, but it did have a rushed feel that didn’t sit completely flush with the rest of the novel. It was satisfying enough, however.

Overall, “The Third Gate” is a simple novel strongly rooted in older horror and pulp fiction. It handles the cliche of a mummy’s curse with prowess and skill, bringing something sufficiently different to the table. It throws curves endlessly, keeping the reader firmly in its grip, and the final climactic showdown is riveting. Overall, it is strongly recommended, particularly to Child’s fans.

Beautiful, Heartbreaking, and Hopeful: Sarah Porter’s “Waking Storms” (#2 in the “Lost Voices” Trilogy)

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I do not typically find myself captivated by mermaid fiction. I love folklore, mythology, science fiction, urban fantasy, and horror, and have given most of the mermaid reboots a shot. Each novel left me disappointed, however, either in characterization, depth, writing prowess, or story itself.

Sarah Porter’s “Lost Voices” trilogy has none of these flaws, and is, in my opinion, the best new Young Adult series to be published in the last five years. The only contender I can immediately think of is Lauren Destefano’s “Chemical Garden” trilogy, and even then I think “Lost Voices” has the scale tilted slightly in its favor.

“Waking Storms” opens with Dorian, the boy Luce could not bring herself to kill at the end of “Lost Voices.” Dorian lost his family in the shipwreck Luce’s tribe brought about. He is depressed; he is terrified that he is insane (he did see mermaids sinking their cruise ship, after all); he is furious at the creature he believes killed his parents and sister, and on top of all of this, he is horribly sickened with himself for being attracted to the mermaid despite this. He now lives on the Alaskan coast with two distant family members who do not particularly care for him. He is very alone.

Unable to tolerate this any longer, he runs to the beach on a bitter night, yelling for the creature–the mermaid–to face him.

Luce, for her part, has had Dorian on her mind, as well. Not that he’s the only thing on her mind. At the end of “Lost Voices”, (book 1) she and her friend Catarina left their mermaid tribe. Catarina, once queen, was violently ousted by the sociopathic new mermaid, Anais. By the time “Waking Storms” opens, Catarina has abandoned Luce, swimming off early one morning with no explanation or farewell.

Despite her crushing loneliness, Luce can’t bring herself to beg mercy from Anais and return to her tribe. She hates Anais; she is appalled and sickened that the other mermaids follow Anais so willingly; and Luce herself is wracked with guilt over the mermaids’ proclivity to destroy humans. Every mermaid has a beautiful, unearthly voice that literally drives mankind to destroy itself when they hear it. All mermaids were once human themselves, but turned to the sea as a result of horrendous abuse. Thus, most mermaids not only kill humans when they can, but love to do it. (Don’t the abusive monsters deserve it, after all they’ve done to these girls and countless others through the centuries?)

Luce, who herself became a mermaid as a result of attempted rape and a vicious beating, still can’t bring herself to continue killing people. She and her friend Catarina deserted their old tribe for many reasons, not least because Anais wanted to kill both Luce and Catarina. But Luce also dreams of beginning a new tribe, a tribe that will use their incredible song to build rather than kill.

Luce, swimming alone one night, is stunned to hear Dorian’s voice: he is singing, in his poor human imitation, her own mermaid song. It is the song she used to destroy his ship months ago.  Stunned, she swims to the shore to see what is happening–and meets Dorian.

Much to Dorian’s surprise, they bond quickly, their attachment eventually blossoming into a relationship. As their relationship develops, however, it becomes is just as well that Luce abandoned the tribe; as both she and Dorian learn, Anais has been killing people and sinking ships in such a frenzy that the government is aware that something is wrong. Worse, the FBI itself is aware that the continuous loss of life is likely not of natural origin.

“Waking Storms” is gorgeously written, with amazingly deep characters that tug at the heartstrings. It is unusually dark for a young adult release, but not overwhelmingly so. The take on the mermaid myth is different, refreshing, and painful. The quandaries and moral dilemmas faced by Dorian, Luce, and other characters are genuinely distressing. While there are clear answers to most of these dilemmas (though not all), the solutions are never simple, never easy, and bear worse consequences for the people who make those right decisions than the selfish choices would. The relationship between Luce and Dorian is wonderful, yet stressful and ultimately heartbreaking while carrying on a bright beam of hope–just like everything else in the novel.

This is not an easy book, it is a gorgeous one, and highly recommended. I’m already counting down to the release of the third novel.

 

**Because a) so many people are asking; b) it isn’t like a huge spoiler or anything and c) I love spoilers, here you are: CATARINA DID NOT KILL LUCE’S FATHER. Seriously, think about it. Can you imagine a writer as talented as Sarah Porter taking such an easy and maudlin out? I didn’t think so.

This Just Sounds (and Reads) Too Familiar: Jessica Shirvington’s “Embrace”

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I recently had the opportunity to read “Embrace”, the first installment in a new YA trilogy by Jessica Shirvington. It sounded interesting, but overall I was far from impressed. In fact, I was disappointed. While there is nothing new under the sun, I am sick and tired of reading and rereading the exact same story ad infinitum. Occasionally, the familiar story will make a splash through a new twist, interesting characters, or a beautiful literary flair. This was not the case with “Embrace”, and honestly, it is not the case with any of these stories in recent months.

Here’s a quick rundown of the book: Violet Eden is a hard-working, artistic, withdrawn high school student who, by way of an irritatingly vague and cliche letter (penned by a mother who died giving birth to her) presented to her on her 17th birthday, finds out she’s more than human. In fact, she’s a half-angel. And on her birthday, hordes of angels bents on enslaving humanity descend on her because these half-Angels–Grigori, they’re called–were specifically created by the good angels to combat the bad angels. Violet, who also trains in martial arts with a sizzlingly hot trainer who also happens to be a Grigori, finds herself in the stereotypical love triangle. One is the aforementioned trainer; one is an angel. The Grigori is somewhat of a best friend, despite her feelings for him; the angel is (predictably) possessive, manipulative, quick to anger, and (naturally) possessed of an otherworldly beauty.

This is “Legion” meets “Twilight” meets “The Mortal Instruments.”

I’m going to go ahead and insert a lengthy disclaimer here. I called the YA fallen-angel trend five years ago, so I was basically tired of it before it really came along. This might not make me the best reviewer for this book. Further, I have issues with girls like Violet who, for all their superficial awesomeness, are at heart the same whiny, insecure little girl whose most earth-shattering decision has more to do with boys than with the disaster at hand. Also, I have a huge problem with having to read about the same ancient, beautiful, inhuman male character who, for all his long centuries of life, never learned how to treat a girl.

If the above renders my review useless to you, so be it. Stop reading if you haven’t already.

To continue, the characterization was flinchingly awful. Violet sounds great on the synopsis. She sounds refreshing, she sounds unique, she sounds like an interesting person. Artistic, works hard, steadily mastering self-defense, life brushed with tragedy. Sounds a little maudlin, but cool enough to pull it off, yeah?

Nope.

Here’s the thing about Violet. Violet is most deeply torn not over her destiny (instant face-palm: I would love to read a well-written YA novel where an obvious destiny does not lazily dictate the book), or the fact that God is more or less allowing angels to enslave humanity. No, her most pressing issue (of course) has to do with whether she really wants the angel or the half-angel. Violet is, in essence, the exact same teenage girl we’ve been reading about for six or seven years now. Of all of the things she is, all the things she could be–she is pretty much about the boys.

The boys themselves are flat. I’d go so far out on a descriptive limb as to say one-dimensional. Worse, they are the same one-dimensional character. The angel is just a little more talented and lot more curt than the half-angel. They seriously are two halves of the same whole.

Overall, the writing is poor. “Show, don’t tell” is a rule I don’t adhere to exclusively, but there was far too much telling going on in “Embrace.” The sentences are flat. Even when allowing for necessary differences in writing as opposed to speaking aloud, the dialogue was unrealistic and often cringe-worthy. The entire story is hurried–except when Violet’s love interests are concerned. This is a little bit sad, because the actual framework for the story has the potential to be good. The author did craft an interesting framework with the angel types and hierarchy. You also have to give the writer props for crafting a book that is a perfectly typical YA paranormal romance. The story is straight, it is to the point, and it does not pretend to be anything other than what it is. Unfortunately, I do not like what it is.

Overall, “Embrace” lacked. All of the complaints above are (I believe) true, and if they are true, they’re absolutely valid complaints. As obnoxious as they are, though, there is something else. There is a theme in this book. It is by no means exclusive to this book. But there is an implication(in between the oh-so-vital boy problems) that good and evil are interchangeable. That there is, in fact, no true good and no true evil. When you are writing about angels–whatever you personal interpretation of angels happens to be–that’s seriously a major flaw. Judging by the history of science fiction, fantasy, and even horror, you can make the argument that a great work of fantasy can’t exist without good and evil. That fundamental struggle is vital to this genre. At least, it is vital if one wishes to make a mark on this genre. The writing and plotting and characterization could have been beautiful, but without that underlying, universal conflict, the story would be found wanting. In my opinion, at least, “Embrace” was severely wanting.

 

This all said, I am fully aware that tastes differ, and this might be the perfect read for somebody out there. If you’d like to take a closer look or view some differing and well-supported opinions, here you are:

 

http://www.amazon.com/Embrace-Jessica-Shirvington/dp/1402268408/ref=cm_cr-mr-title

 

Thanks, as always, for reading what Miss Beans says.