everything to me
Then there was Emma Wildes' Secrets Of A Scarlet Lady, borrowed off liadlaith who had quite rightly warned me it was a silly book. Fun but silly.
It constantly irritated me. The concept was excellent, the feminist subtext almost text and very cool indeed. But gad, the writing. If only Emma Wildes had applied the same thought and intelligence and 'daring' to the language! If I had to see the word 'azure' one more time in relation to anything or the word 'opulent' in relation to breasts, I would have bashed the book against the desk. Repeatedly. And normally I quite enjoy well-endowed heroines, speaking as someone fairly well-endowed. Here I began to cringe on behalf of all the flatter-chested women reading this relentless adulation. Gah!
I really liked the structure, the fact that the book begins after the wedding. What I didn't like was being presented with a secondary couple when really I would have preferred theirs to be a wholly separate novel. By the time I realised what an excellent counterpoint their story was to the primary couple, I was so irritated by Emma Wildes that it really didn't help. The realisation came far too late.
It was all just so clumsy. The humour was too often heavyhanded even though there were some great one-liners here and there. Too much recapping and over-exposition. And god, even the sex became repetitive, not nearly inventive enough for the premise and not ramping up as steady as it should have. God, it irked me. I was actually bored through not one but two scenes. And dear god, enough with the soul descriptions of orgasm. Not a single soul invocation was actually earned.
The whole book was so damned insulting to the genre, reducing such a great premise to stock phrases of the genre. Oof.
Mind you, still nowhere as ghastly as an Adele Ashworth novel I read just before, My Darling Caroline. Gah!
Wow. I just had a totally bizarre interwebz moment. Looking up my review on Visual Bookshelf, I just found someone else with my half of my first name who reviewed the same book in glowing terms. God, totally fucked with my head for a moment. "Wait, is that me? When did I say that? I don't remember saying that!"
My review: All the way through this book, I kept thinking "My god, just let me edit this. I can fix this!" All it needed was a damned ruthless edit because all the good stuff was there --- the characterisation, the setting, the plot --- and it was all really solid well-developed stuff. But it was told so badly, trying so damned hard it was complete overkill on the language and techniques and sentiment. Rendered an excellent book completely hideous! By the time we got to the religious epiphany, I was swearing aloud.
Mind you, I'm fairly certain this was Adele Ashworth's first book or at least one of her earliest. Here's hoping she's met a lot of good writers and editors since then and learnt so much from them. Cos she can be so much better, it's all there!
It constantly irritated me. The concept was excellent, the feminist subtext almost text and very cool indeed. But gad, the writing. If only Emma Wildes had applied the same thought and intelligence and 'daring' to the language! If I had to see the word 'azure' one more time in relation to anything or the word 'opulent' in relation to breasts, I would have bashed the book against the desk. Repeatedly. And normally I quite enjoy well-endowed heroines, speaking as someone fairly well-endowed. Here I began to cringe on behalf of all the flatter-chested women reading this relentless adulation. Gah!
I really liked the structure, the fact that the book begins after the wedding. What I didn't like was being presented with a secondary couple when really I would have preferred theirs to be a wholly separate novel. By the time I realised what an excellent counterpoint their story was to the primary couple, I was so irritated by Emma Wildes that it really didn't help. The realisation came far too late.
It was all just so clumsy. The humour was too often heavyhanded even though there were some great one-liners here and there. Too much recapping and over-exposition. And god, even the sex became repetitive, not nearly inventive enough for the premise and not ramping up as steady as it should have. God, it irked me. I was actually bored through not one but two scenes. And dear god, enough with the soul descriptions of orgasm. Not a single soul invocation was actually earned.
The whole book was so damned insulting to the genre, reducing such a great premise to stock phrases of the genre. Oof.
Mind you, still nowhere as ghastly as an Adele Ashworth novel I read just before, My Darling Caroline. Gah!
Wow. I just had a totally bizarre interwebz moment. Looking up my review on Visual Bookshelf, I just found someone else with my half of my first name who reviewed the same book in glowing terms. God, totally fucked with my head for a moment. "Wait, is that me? When did I say that? I don't remember saying that!"
My review: All the way through this book, I kept thinking "My god, just let me edit this. I can fix this!" All it needed was a damned ruthless edit because all the good stuff was there --- the characterisation, the setting, the plot --- and it was all really solid well-developed stuff. But it was told so badly, trying so damned hard it was complete overkill on the language and techniques and sentiment. Rendered an excellent book completely hideous! By the time we got to the religious epiphany, I was swearing aloud.
Mind you, I'm fairly certain this was Adele Ashworth's first book or at least one of her earliest. Here's hoping she's met a lot of good writers and editors since then and learnt so much from them. Cos she can be so much better, it's all there!