Various and assorted
1. My favorite reviewer, Abigail Nussbaum, does a (as always) brilliant and articulate post-mortem of the utter train wreck that was Battlestar Galactica (Wait. How unpopular is this fannish opinion? Am I going to be shunned now?)
2. This is a really beautiful specimen of humanity. (Also, my love of black and white pictures of beautiful people seems to be getting worse, not better.)
3. I am not even sure if I really consider myself a member of SPN fandom anymore, but the con reports coming out of LA make me ridiculously happy. It's not even that our boys are so doing it, it's how much they absolutely love feeding the fangirls. "Jared and I had our own wrap party last night... That's why I'm having a hard time moving around this morning." *dies* They are so good to us!
4. I had a horrible allergic reaction to something today. The skin of my face is completely covered in hives. I'm all bright red and blotchy and bubbly and scaly. The skin on my eyelids has the same texture as a particularly unpleasant lizard. I'm bumpy and peely and itchy from my hairline to my jaw. I have no idea what triggered it or what to do, so I am mostly sitting around slathering my face with plain, unscented Cetaphil and trying (failing) not to pick at it. I am, as you can imagine, extraordinarily attractive.
The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger.
I was really, really looking forward to reading this- have been keeping my eyes open for it for the last few years. Turns out that it's really, really, really bad. Unsatisfyingly bad: a decently original, imaginative hook, a basically good story, a complicated structure that is actually well-organized, and a certain basic rock-bottom level of competence in the writing. It's readable. It's fun, until you slow down and take a breath and go wow, that sucked on about fifteen different levels. I started trying to write an actual review, and I simply couldn't find a way to organize or prioritize that many varieties of badness.
This is a book written with two first-person narrators who are completely non-distinguished in narrative voice. It's a complicated, time-hopping, puzzle plot wherein all the actual puzzle pieces are spelled out in ridiculously obvious and unchallening ways. It is full of caricatured and stock characters living out a writer's fantasy of too-cool over-intellectual bohemian anarchist artists who don't seem to evolve or change over the twenty-plus years of the novel. Our main characters come from from over-the-top, soap-opera-screwed-up families and both float through their entire lives on a vague cushion of independent wealth for the sake of narrative convenience. The time traveler lives possibly the strangest life imaginable and yet doesn't seem shaped or remotely altered by it.
But there are two truly horrific levels of badness, the first of which is, I acknowledge, all about my own personal issues: Halfway through the book, the entire story descends into the melodrama of how desperately our heroine craves a baby. That is all we get, for a hundred solid pages: how her life is incomplete without a baby, how it's all she can think about, how the lack of a baby destroys everything, how their inability ruins their entire marriage, and Jesus, lady. And, after miscarriage number seven (oh, grow a CLUE, lady), her husband dares to tentatively suggest adoption, and she freaks out and screams about him that she doesn't want a FAKE family.
Hint: please to not be making me utterly loathe your main character, especially not when it seems like you don't have any idea what is wrong with this picture?
And the second horrific level of badness: The plot is deeply creepy with no indication that the author acknowledges or deals with the creep factor. Clare's entire life from the age of six is shaped by Henry; she never exists as a person separate from him or without him. This adult man travels back in time and ends up grooming this little girl to be his wife through her entire childhood and adolescence, and she has no free will in the matter and no inclination whatsoever to think about who she is apart from him. I have almost infinite tolerance for creepy stuff like this if it's deliberate and thoughtful, but this isn't.
The end of my copy had one of those "book group reading guides." One of the questions was "How does the author manage to make their relationship eccentric -- even enchanted -- rather than sinister?" Which. Okay. If the book did that, managed to acknowledge that creepiness and negotiate the pittfalls of it and give her some agency in the whole creepy mess? That would be a good book. This? This is just icky.
It is a love story about two people who never once appear even remotely in love. They're just two random people who got trapped in this creepy dystopian entanglement with no particular identities of their own, no real feelings for each other aside from inevitability, and now way out, who end up deeply convinced they love each other out of a kind of Stockholm Syndrome.
2. This is a really beautiful specimen of humanity. (Also, my love of black and white pictures of beautiful people seems to be getting worse, not better.)
3. I am not even sure if I really consider myself a member of SPN fandom anymore, but the con reports coming out of LA make me ridiculously happy. It's not even that our boys are so doing it, it's how much they absolutely love feeding the fangirls. "Jared and I had our own wrap party last night... That's why I'm having a hard time moving around this morning." *dies* They are so good to us!
4. I had a horrible allergic reaction to something today. The skin of my face is completely covered in hives. I'm all bright red and blotchy and bubbly and scaly. The skin on my eyelids has the same texture as a particularly unpleasant lizard. I'm bumpy and peely and itchy from my hairline to my jaw. I have no idea what triggered it or what to do, so I am mostly sitting around slathering my face with plain, unscented Cetaphil and trying (failing) not to pick at it. I am, as you can imagine, extraordinarily attractive.
The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger.
I was really, really looking forward to reading this- have been keeping my eyes open for it for the last few years. Turns out that it's really, really, really bad. Unsatisfyingly bad: a decently original, imaginative hook, a basically good story, a complicated structure that is actually well-organized, and a certain basic rock-bottom level of competence in the writing. It's readable. It's fun, until you slow down and take a breath and go wow, that sucked on about fifteen different levels. I started trying to write an actual review, and I simply couldn't find a way to organize or prioritize that many varieties of badness.
This is a book written with two first-person narrators who are completely non-distinguished in narrative voice. It's a complicated, time-hopping, puzzle plot wherein all the actual puzzle pieces are spelled out in ridiculously obvious and unchallening ways. It is full of caricatured and stock characters living out a writer's fantasy of too-cool over-intellectual bohemian anarchist artists who don't seem to evolve or change over the twenty-plus years of the novel. Our main characters come from from over-the-top, soap-opera-screwed-up families and both float through their entire lives on a vague cushion of independent wealth for the sake of narrative convenience. The time traveler lives possibly the strangest life imaginable and yet doesn't seem shaped or remotely altered by it.
But there are two truly horrific levels of badness, the first of which is, I acknowledge, all about my own personal issues: Halfway through the book, the entire story descends into the melodrama of how desperately our heroine craves a baby. That is all we get, for a hundred solid pages: how her life is incomplete without a baby, how it's all she can think about, how the lack of a baby destroys everything, how their inability ruins their entire marriage, and Jesus, lady. And, after miscarriage number seven (oh, grow a CLUE, lady), her husband dares to tentatively suggest adoption, and she freaks out and screams about him that she doesn't want a FAKE family.
Hint: please to not be making me utterly loathe your main character, especially not when it seems like you don't have any idea what is wrong with this picture?
And the second horrific level of badness: The plot is deeply creepy with no indication that the author acknowledges or deals with the creep factor. Clare's entire life from the age of six is shaped by Henry; she never exists as a person separate from him or without him. This adult man travels back in time and ends up grooming this little girl to be his wife through her entire childhood and adolescence, and she has no free will in the matter and no inclination whatsoever to think about who she is apart from him. I have almost infinite tolerance for creepy stuff like this if it's deliberate and thoughtful, but this isn't.
The end of my copy had one of those "book group reading guides." One of the questions was "How does the author manage to make their relationship eccentric -- even enchanted -- rather than sinister?" Which. Okay. If the book did that, managed to acknowledge that creepiness and negotiate the pittfalls of it and give her some agency in the whole creepy mess? That would be a good book. This? This is just icky.
It is a love story about two people who never once appear even remotely in love. They're just two random people who got trapped in this creepy dystopian entanglement with no particular identities of their own, no real feelings for each other aside from inevitability, and now way out, who end up deeply convinced they love each other out of a kind of Stockholm Syndrome.