happy in a make-believe
Rather unsurprisingly, I am procrastinating on the writing so have decided I need to catch up on all the romance novel reviews.
Gayle Callen I was recced on Visual Bookshelf and found at Dymocks on a day I was so bored that I was desperate for anything. Picked up Never Marry A Stranger and got to the end of the first chapter before I tossed it aside. Talk about paint by bloody number, mechanical, unimaginative dreary prose and tedious characterisation. Great premise, most colourless execution.
Of course coming right after Meredith Duran did put poor Gayle Callen at a terrible disadvantage. :p
But see, I went directly from that to Janet Mullany's A Most Lamentable Comedy and that had me giggling aloud very late at night. What I said on Visual Bookshelf: Oh, such a joy! A wonderfully cynical and highly intelligent heroine and a fabulously absurd hero. And best of all, this book has so much more heart than Mullany's previous one. My only small quibble was how quickly the sex scenes were skimmed over ... kinda get the feeling Mullany could write fabulously warm, funny and sweet sex scenes if only she'd allow herself. But otherwise, love this book dearly.
And I found one of the contemporaries Elizabeth Hoyt writes under the name of Julia Harper. For The Love Of Pete. It was fun, definitely in the beginning, but ended up slightly disappointing. He was a little too alpha male for my liking even though I definitely appreciated the quirks of music Harper gave him.
I was utterly charmed by our heroine at the start. Smart, sassy, vibrant, very interesting. But it turned out as the novel went on that she had nothing to back that up. It was quite like the novel moved away from her and more towards the hero. That I didn't like. Our heroine was nowhere nearly as assertive and ballsy as I wanted her to be, as I wanted her to stand up to the alpha male Italian stallion of an FBI officer. She was a leetle too passive at the end of all the action, and a little too submissive in the sex scenes although I totally applauded Harper for pointing out the power of the submissive. I just wanted her power to be more overt, more aggressive like it was in the beginning. She became a little too idealised as the novel progressed and that was very much cos there was so much more of the hero's perspective as we went on.
I have to admit I found the Indian old ladies utterly adorable and the attention to culinary detail was awesome, proper names and everything. Until we got to the dinner and it was described in appalling Anglicised terms. Once I can understand, when the white folk are introduced to the food. But they were never told the proper names so the reader was never told the right names and that totally got up my nose. Curried lentils and flatbread?! WHAT?! How about fucking dal and naans?! Hell, I would think even the most culinary conservative of my white friends would know what dal and naans are. Curried lentils and flatbreads, my arse. Talk about crippling your reader by denying them authentic language. No wonder Americans are so fucking ignorant if this is what their publishers do. Oooh!
The dialogue of the Indian ladies was fascinating because not once --- I think --- was there a mention of an accent and I liked that very much, that refreshing avoidance of stereotype that was very much all the way through the novel.
Wasn't perfect, though. There were a couple of moments where I bristled at the putting down of India in favour of America but they were very few and far between. And every now and then their dialogue was a little too archaic for me but then they were ladies of an older generation. Mind you, they were prolly my granny's generation and she never spoke like that but then she was Cambridge-educated and we weren't told about these ladies' education. I think.
I'm afraid I skipped all the chapters from the bad guys' POV. I had absolutely no interest in the action/crime aspect of the novel and that's my fail rather than Harper's.
The pop culture references were fantastic, all the more so for not being explained at all --- I mean, I don't even watch 24 but even I chuckled at the mention of Jack Bauer --- and I absolutely loved the music argument even though our heroine totally got my back up by hooting at Frank Sinatra and Harry Connick Jr. *boggles* By the time she said "I never did like Jerry Lewis," I was ready to slap her. Ignorant snobbish child. But ha, our hero routed the music thing absolutely wonderfully and totally had me smirking on both our behalfs.
So it was good but not great and I am still curious about the other one, Hot.
Anne Mallory's What Isabella Desires was another of those desperate purchases. It was completely irritating. Great heroine but far too tortured a hero and it had those horribly overwrought olskool hyperbolic descriptions that I have been completely spoilt for by all the good stuff I've read in the same genre. I'm pretty sure this is the novel that had a description of eyes like cut emeralds. O rly?! Cut emeralds?! My god, that pissed me off so much I was repeating it in my head for two days afterwards, appalled every single time at the complete unreality of it. Gah! Plus urgh, political intrigue. Boring! I got as far as the first kiss before tossing aside. Thassit. Don't care.
I also found what looked like an utterly cute read, A Curious Affair by Melanie Jackson. It started out wonderfully but quickly wore out its charm. The depiction of grief and bereavement from cancer was spot on and quite fascinating as a result. The lack of physical details for our heroine was a real puzzle and I did wish the romance would develop a little faster but the pace was totally logical and gratifyingly respectful in terms of her grief. It was also quite deliciously grimy, felt quite authentic as an extremely rural rundown setting.
Definitely talented, Melanie Jackson, and I loved the sardonic emotional highly intelligent absurd first person voice. Which kinda made me wish she'd write something very urban and cosmopolitan a la Marian Keyes or Melane La'Brooy. The questioning of sanity was done with such great timing and humourous concern but most of all I loved how laconic and easy our heroine was about the paranormal touch to the plot. That was so awesome to see, not a single cliche of plot or characterisation in this novel.
Mind you, I did find her sartorial taste a little suspect --- actually made me check when it was written, last year, which was weird because her taste seemed horribly mid-Nineties but maybe that's where the character's stuck --- and she was a bit too bleeding heart new age hippie for my liking. Got a little too preachy about animal cruelty for me. *yawn*
Curious how separately all these elements were fabulous and well realised but together they didn't really make for a very enjoyable read. I kept wishing it was more beautiful. But oh, loved the sly pop culture references thrown in without explanation. Never fails to be awesome.
But it turned out to be waaaaaaaaaayyy too much tell. Which made for walls of text that just tired my eyes. And about sixty per cent, while funny and well described, was frequently irrelevant to plot or at least didn't move it along as snappily as I would have liked. My mind started to drag so my eyes began to skim.
I did love how the relationship with Atherton developed and how he changed as a result. Again, totally not flagged and all the more awesome for it. And I'm deliberately not saying who Atherton is. :p
Still, yeah, curiously unsatisfied by the time I finished it. Cos yeah, way too much inner monologue --- never thought I as a Joycean lover would ever say that --- and not nearly enough fast paced plot. It was almost like Melanie Jackson was trying to pad out a measly plot with so much thought. And there was absolutely no reason for the concert and all those repulsed descriptions. Totally gratuitous and frankly appalled me as a writer and a reader.
I didn't approve of her lying at the end either. Now I want to try just one more in case this novel is an anomaly. Cos I like so much about her style.
And finally there was Seduced By His Touch by Tracy Anne Warren. Which I'm not ashamed to say I bought entirely because of the sheer awesomeness of the cover. I mean, seriously. Even the electronic version doesn't do the real image justice. The textures and sensuality of it are electrifying.
My god, it was awful. Fiction written for women of double digit IQs. Which is no compliment to either the women or the fiction. My first attempt at reading it failed because again with the hyperbolic descriptions, and because the entire plot was heading for an emotional car crash. But I made myself go back to it. And oh my god.
One good thing was how wonderfully ruthless our heroine was when she discovered the deception. Before that, she was excruciatingly naive. After that, predictably stupid. God, it was all so stupid. He had the wit of molasses, nearly as thick as her. Every joke and innuendo made by either of them made me want to cut my own throat. The similes and thoughts during the sex scenes made me want to throw up. I mean, admittedly the glove thing was fabulously hot and reminded me so much of Lord Of Scoundrels which I didn't mind. But then it was immediately rendered awful by the so hideously obvious and then spelt out symbolism. God almighty, for an injection of INTELLIGENCE to this novel!
By the time we got to the discovery, I was skimming to the point of a page in three seconds, afraid of hurting my eyes on the awfulness of the prose. I mean, for all I know, Tracy Anne Warren could be capable of the most skilful witty strong wonderful characterisation and deft engaging delightful plots, capable of lively fascinating writing.
Not a shred of that in this novel.
Seriously, the best thing about the book was the cover. Such an awesome cover deserved a far far better book.
Sabrina Darby, however? Deserves a post entirely of her own. *nods*
Gayle Callen I was recced on Visual Bookshelf and found at Dymocks on a day I was so bored that I was desperate for anything. Picked up Never Marry A Stranger and got to the end of the first chapter before I tossed it aside. Talk about paint by bloody number, mechanical, unimaginative dreary prose and tedious characterisation. Great premise, most colourless execution.
Of course coming right after Meredith Duran did put poor Gayle Callen at a terrible disadvantage. :p
But see, I went directly from that to Janet Mullany's A Most Lamentable Comedy and that had me giggling aloud very late at night. What I said on Visual Bookshelf: Oh, such a joy! A wonderfully cynical and highly intelligent heroine and a fabulously absurd hero. And best of all, this book has so much more heart than Mullany's previous one. My only small quibble was how quickly the sex scenes were skimmed over ... kinda get the feeling Mullany could write fabulously warm, funny and sweet sex scenes if only she'd allow herself. But otherwise, love this book dearly.
And I found one of the contemporaries Elizabeth Hoyt writes under the name of Julia Harper. For The Love Of Pete. It was fun, definitely in the beginning, but ended up slightly disappointing. He was a little too alpha male for my liking even though I definitely appreciated the quirks of music Harper gave him.
I was utterly charmed by our heroine at the start. Smart, sassy, vibrant, very interesting. But it turned out as the novel went on that she had nothing to back that up. It was quite like the novel moved away from her and more towards the hero. That I didn't like. Our heroine was nowhere nearly as assertive and ballsy as I wanted her to be, as I wanted her to stand up to the alpha male Italian stallion of an FBI officer. She was a leetle too passive at the end of all the action, and a little too submissive in the sex scenes although I totally applauded Harper for pointing out the power of the submissive. I just wanted her power to be more overt, more aggressive like it was in the beginning. She became a little too idealised as the novel progressed and that was very much cos there was so much more of the hero's perspective as we went on.
I have to admit I found the Indian old ladies utterly adorable and the attention to culinary detail was awesome, proper names and everything. Until we got to the dinner and it was described in appalling Anglicised terms. Once I can understand, when the white folk are introduced to the food. But they were never told the proper names so the reader was never told the right names and that totally got up my nose. Curried lentils and flatbread?! WHAT?! How about fucking dal and naans?! Hell, I would think even the most culinary conservative of my white friends would know what dal and naans are. Curried lentils and flatbreads, my arse. Talk about crippling your reader by denying them authentic language. No wonder Americans are so fucking ignorant if this is what their publishers do. Oooh!
The dialogue of the Indian ladies was fascinating because not once --- I think --- was there a mention of an accent and I liked that very much, that refreshing avoidance of stereotype that was very much all the way through the novel.
Wasn't perfect, though. There were a couple of moments where I bristled at the putting down of India in favour of America but they were very few and far between. And every now and then their dialogue was a little too archaic for me but then they were ladies of an older generation. Mind you, they were prolly my granny's generation and she never spoke like that but then she was Cambridge-educated and we weren't told about these ladies' education. I think.
I'm afraid I skipped all the chapters from the bad guys' POV. I had absolutely no interest in the action/crime aspect of the novel and that's my fail rather than Harper's.
The pop culture references were fantastic, all the more so for not being explained at all --- I mean, I don't even watch 24 but even I chuckled at the mention of Jack Bauer --- and I absolutely loved the music argument even though our heroine totally got my back up by hooting at Frank Sinatra and Harry Connick Jr. *boggles* By the time she said "I never did like Jerry Lewis," I was ready to slap her. Ignorant snobbish child. But ha, our hero routed the music thing absolutely wonderfully and totally had me smirking on both our behalfs.
So it was good but not great and I am still curious about the other one, Hot.
Anne Mallory's What Isabella Desires was another of those desperate purchases. It was completely irritating. Great heroine but far too tortured a hero and it had those horribly overwrought olskool hyperbolic descriptions that I have been completely spoilt for by all the good stuff I've read in the same genre. I'm pretty sure this is the novel that had a description of eyes like cut emeralds. O rly?! Cut emeralds?! My god, that pissed me off so much I was repeating it in my head for two days afterwards, appalled every single time at the complete unreality of it. Gah! Plus urgh, political intrigue. Boring! I got as far as the first kiss before tossing aside. Thassit. Don't care.
I also found what looked like an utterly cute read, A Curious Affair by Melanie Jackson. It started out wonderfully but quickly wore out its charm. The depiction of grief and bereavement from cancer was spot on and quite fascinating as a result. The lack of physical details for our heroine was a real puzzle and I did wish the romance would develop a little faster but the pace was totally logical and gratifyingly respectful in terms of her grief. It was also quite deliciously grimy, felt quite authentic as an extremely rural rundown setting.
Definitely talented, Melanie Jackson, and I loved the sardonic emotional highly intelligent absurd first person voice. Which kinda made me wish she'd write something very urban and cosmopolitan a la Marian Keyes or Melane La'Brooy. The questioning of sanity was done with such great timing and humourous concern but most of all I loved how laconic and easy our heroine was about the paranormal touch to the plot. That was so awesome to see, not a single cliche of plot or characterisation in this novel.
Mind you, I did find her sartorial taste a little suspect --- actually made me check when it was written, last year, which was weird because her taste seemed horribly mid-Nineties but maybe that's where the character's stuck --- and she was a bit too bleeding heart new age hippie for my liking. Got a little too preachy about animal cruelty for me. *yawn*
Curious how separately all these elements were fabulous and well realised but together they didn't really make for a very enjoyable read. I kept wishing it was more beautiful. But oh, loved the sly pop culture references thrown in without explanation. Never fails to be awesome.
But it turned out to be waaaaaaaaaayyy too much tell. Which made for walls of text that just tired my eyes. And about sixty per cent, while funny and well described, was frequently irrelevant to plot or at least didn't move it along as snappily as I would have liked. My mind started to drag so my eyes began to skim.
I did love how the relationship with Atherton developed and how he changed as a result. Again, totally not flagged and all the more awesome for it. And I'm deliberately not saying who Atherton is. :p
Still, yeah, curiously unsatisfied by the time I finished it. Cos yeah, way too much inner monologue --- never thought I as a Joycean lover would ever say that --- and not nearly enough fast paced plot. It was almost like Melanie Jackson was trying to pad out a measly plot with so much thought. And there was absolutely no reason for the concert and all those repulsed descriptions. Totally gratuitous and frankly appalled me as a writer and a reader.
I didn't approve of her lying at the end either. Now I want to try just one more in case this novel is an anomaly. Cos I like so much about her style.
And finally there was Seduced By His Touch by Tracy Anne Warren. Which I'm not ashamed to say I bought entirely because of the sheer awesomeness of the cover. I mean, seriously. Even the electronic version doesn't do the real image justice. The textures and sensuality of it are electrifying.
My god, it was awful. Fiction written for women of double digit IQs. Which is no compliment to either the women or the fiction. My first attempt at reading it failed because again with the hyperbolic descriptions, and because the entire plot was heading for an emotional car crash. But I made myself go back to it. And oh my god.
One good thing was how wonderfully ruthless our heroine was when she discovered the deception. Before that, she was excruciatingly naive. After that, predictably stupid. God, it was all so stupid. He had the wit of molasses, nearly as thick as her. Every joke and innuendo made by either of them made me want to cut my own throat. The similes and thoughts during the sex scenes made me want to throw up. I mean, admittedly the glove thing was fabulously hot and reminded me so much of Lord Of Scoundrels which I didn't mind. But then it was immediately rendered awful by the so hideously obvious and then spelt out symbolism. God almighty, for an injection of INTELLIGENCE to this novel!
By the time we got to the discovery, I was skimming to the point of a page in three seconds, afraid of hurting my eyes on the awfulness of the prose. I mean, for all I know, Tracy Anne Warren could be capable of the most skilful witty strong wonderful characterisation and deft engaging delightful plots, capable of lively fascinating writing.
Not a shred of that in this novel.
Seriously, the best thing about the book was the cover. Such an awesome cover deserved a far far better book.
Sabrina Darby, however? Deserves a post entirely of her own. *nods*