Wrong About the Guy - Claire LaZebnik

You guys remember what I said about Last Best Kiss, right? In the words of Elle Woods, THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT (though, in her case she was talking about four hours of sexytimes in a hot tub...).

I really liked The Last Best Kiss, but this I LOVED. Ellie is my kind of MC. She's selfish and spoiled and overbearing and a bit of a dictator, but she does it right. She's charming and, more, she undoubtedly has a good heart. She's open to change and willing to admit when she makes a mistake and goes about fixing it. She handles constructive criticism like a boss.

Also, other pros:
-George is very Josh a la Clueless, but somehow so much better
-this book reminded me a bit of Clueless, the 90s film if you don't know (a/k/a the 90s version of Mean Girls and literally one of the best movies ever)
-one of my favorite family dynamics ever: cooky, upfront grandma (she gives the sex talks around here), best stepdad ever, loving mom, and adorable half brother - this family TALKS, communicates, goes through hurdles together, has a PRESENCE, but one that fits incredibly well in a YA story all about Ellie trying to get into college, make decisions about boys, struggle with friends
-deals with autism wonderfully
-has a guy-girl best friendship with no REAL threat of romantic entanglement without either one of them being gay (come on, that is a trope we all know)
-boyfriend who's uncomfortable but willing to deal with said guy-girl best friendship
-sex is openly discussed
-teenage feminism is done believably and well from what i know of feminism (Ellie gets the principle and applies it in how people see her/treat her, i.e. her approach when faced with topics of slut shaming and women being "domestic")

Cons:
-Heather and Ellie's friendship at times put me off, I thought that avenue could've been handled a little better, with a little more love, but not totally off putting

Overall, I loved Ellie. She reminds me a little of Celaena Sardothien in a modern-day, our-world setting. A girl who's both good and flawed and eccentric and selfish and charming and i downright adore.

Basically, LaZebnik is now an auto-buy author. I've since purchased Epic Fail during an ebook sale and can't wait to try it out while I'm abroad! ^^

Rating: 4 stars

#AlltheRage by Courtney Summers

This is a rape book. And All the Rage by Courtney Summers says a lot.

But, did you hear me? This is a book about rape. A rape book.

The word 'rape' often rolls around uncomfortably in my mouth before coming out, and I get the feeling that's true for a lot of people. So, they use words like 'forced' and 'overpowered' to hide behind other words, safer words, than to let a word like 'rape' rise out of the dark, where everybody will see. Not everybody can bear it, to see. I'm not going to spare myself the discomfort.

This is an important book. Yes, the subject matter pertains to rape. But, it speaks to the before and after of rape, speaks to what so many of us are still afraid to acknowledge, let alone voice. It says something like,

I can outrun the boy in the truck bed. I can outrun the boy in the truck bed and all the other boys he's made in his likeness and all the boys who made themselves in his likeness since, just because they could, just because no one said they couldn't...

No one said they couldn't.

When you read something like that, All the Rage by Courtney Summers makes you wonder just what you have condoned or enabled simply by ignoring, by pretending away the truth. Makes you hate ever having thought because someone dresses provocatively or has feelings for a boy or comes from a bad family that they've put themselves in a position to be harmed. That they were asking to be harmed. Because they provoked, they incited, they can't be trusted.

Reminds us of how shitty a species we are. To be frank. And this from an optimist.

And that's the thing about All the Rage by Courtney Summers... there's no bullshit. Summers brandishes her words and dares you to face them, to have the guts to meet this awfulness head-on. And if you can keep reading, without looking away or cringing for too long, then there might be some hope for us after all.

The writing is all the more beautiful for it's sharp edges and grim, jaded inflections. Romy has a story inside her that's as broken apart as she is, and it tears and rends and grinds and pulls to read each piece. Because it leads to something that makes you want to close your eyes and keep them shut.

look at me.      I want you to look at me.

But, as proven with This Is Not a Test by Courtney Summers, as much as I can listen to what Summers has to say and what her characters have to say, I hate where our conversation ends up. Because it's vague and open and is always supposed to mean something, but I end up feeling lacking when I'm not satisfied by what it's all supposed to mean. It's not about making my own determination. I just hate feeling like I don't know the truth, that it's being hidden for the sake of my own interpretation.

I really wish Summers would stop doing that.

Five Reasons Danielle Paige's Dorothy Must Die Should Die Too

Brace yourselves for an unpopular opinion, cyberfriends.

Although, granted, there has been a lot of controversy around this book, so maybe, at this point, no one cares. Nevertheless, I wanted to point out that while Five Reasons Danielle Paige's Dorothy Must Die Should Die Too is kinda harsh (and kinda repetitive), I don't intend to bash this book. (Why would I harm a perfectly sturdy book? I just liked the title.) I'm merely going to cite my opinions, which will all, in a way, amount to this first point:

#5 I was so bored 

Let's go back for a minute.

Think back to the beginning of summer vacation. Not the beginning beginning, which happens the second the last bell rings and the streets run red with two-button polo shirts before they are removed. This being done in gratitude for a new day ahead that does not require appeasing oppressors like the board of education.

I'm talking about the following week, when you were at your window with the days of summer stretching before you... and no plans to fill those days. No plans except staring from that very same window,  but only AFTER having grown bored of riding around in the ever-present Pathmark shopping cart you and the neighborhood kids relied upon.

Do you remember what that feeling of hopeless boredom was like? Remember how it felt like being in the sun too long, the rays coaxing your lids down and forcing a yawn from you? Remember how that yawn filled your entire body, and  how by the time the air you'd gathered left your mouth again you were already on your way to sleep?

THAT'S how bored I was reading Dorothy Must Die by Danielle Paige.

photo by: John Morgan

And it might have been prevented because

#4 The story could have been shortened

It took about 120 pages for the good stuff to happen. And it's not like when you break open crab legs to suck out the meat, you know. At least 1) the process of removing the meat is aggressive enough to be somewhat pleasant for those of in a piss-poor mood and 2) the pay-off is delicious. I cannot say the same of Dorothy Must Die by Danielle Paige.

I certainly can't say that had those 120 pages been snipped, the story would have improved. But, at the very least, it would have been an hour or two less of my time and effort. Added to that,

#3 The writing was mediocre

So, the story is boring and much too long, but the writing is good, right?

What do you think?

It wasn't the worst writing I've ever forced myself to read. I will give Dorothy Must Die by Danielle Paige that much. But, because it already had two strikes against it, this just added more weight on the wrong side of the scale.

There were a few gems like: “I hate to break it to you, but just because someone has pretty hair and a good skin tone and a crown instead of a pointy hat doesn’t mean she’s not the baddest bitch this side of the emerald city” and “And you're right. You are on your own. We all are, and we all have to learn it sooner or later. If you have to be alone, though, wouldn't you rather be alone among friends?”

But, then a guy says this to our main character: "Go ahead. Just try and hide from me. But I'm warning you-- I could find you anywhere”and things get 'intense' because “He just stared at me, his gaze intense. I couldn’t look away any more than I could move my arm. Energy crackled between us, and I felt a strange pull to him. Moth to flame. Magnet to magnet. Stupid girl to impossible, slightly mean witch boy. Wizard. Whatever.” 

And I'm supposed to... what? Applaud and look appropriately dazzled because Danielle Paige wrote the equivalent of a magician pulling a rabbit out of her hat? We've all seen that trick, we know what the endgame is. And, because some of us have seen it often enough, we can catch the sleight of hand or notice the specially rigged table.

If the above-referenced passages are supposed to be Danielle Paige's hat trick in all this, it's safe to say I'm sorely unimpressed.

#2 It was innovative... until it wasn't

 Probably THE coolest elements of Dorothy Must Die by Danielle Paige were the twists on what I thought I knew of The Wizard of Oz and all it's characters. This book gives a demented spinoff to a saccharine and lighthearted tale we all know and probably love.

It was sickening to see the Tin Woodman lop off body parts or see the Scarecrow open his head to refuel his brain or see the Lion messily dismembering and ingesting every breathing creature. I grimaced in revulsion when Dorothy gave orders that showed the sadistic flair hiding behind her spoiled rotten exterior. Everything in Oz is irrevocably corrupt. And it's gory and wicked, and had the potential for awesomeness.

And then another hundred pages went by and I noticed patterns forming. I noticed that the consequences of refusing to succumb to this gruesome, grim reality were inconsistent and began to lack thought. There were just sequences and dialogue and actions so clearly orchestrated, I could all but feel Danielle Paige maneuvering her morbid dollies into the proper positions.

photo by: avolore

There was no heart and soul to be found here.

#1 There were shells, not characters

Everyone in Dorothy Must Die by Danielle Paige acted their part. And while the set design, the costumes, the lighting had potential, the director wasn't astute enough to recognize her actors' lack of range or the lack's impact on the story she was trying to tell.

Each movement of a character wasn't always necessarily staged, but it did often feel like a hand was almost visibly giving a nudge. I didn't want Danielle giving a hand to those decisions, I wanted the characters to unfreeze from their poses and come to life all on their own.

But, with been-there-done-that dialogue, it was hard to see these characters as anything other than shells carrying words that Paige thought they should say. I could feel no thought or emotion taking place. And just when you think the characters are going to do or say something to surprise you, out of their mouths come the same tune I've heard sung by many a fictional people, in many a genre.

These characters were cutouts from a magazine Paige really liked and assembled together to make something she thought others would like. But, no matter how she tried with Amy's vulnerability or Nox's unquestioning loyalty or Dorothy's sadistic attitude, they remained thinly made and poorly cut.

photo by: tatiana

What do you think of Paige's attempted rendition of the Wizard of Oz? Did the characters fall as flat for you? I can see this being much better adapted to film or TV. Do you think Dorothy Must Die has a shot at the big screen? Would it be worth the wait... and watch? Leave a comment down below or share your thoughts on any of the social media below!

Saving Francesca - Melina Marchetta

I sat here on my couch reading from 7 or 8 to now at 12am, and peed very infrequently (my bladder is sore), and none of my limbs shook impatiently and my eyes didn't wander and the outside noises didn't detract from the train ride through this book, where I start out as the only passenger, and then someone enters, and another someone, and another, and then another joins the others and you realize these new passengers are connected, even if they don't want to be at first, but the joy they feel in reaching an unexpected, breathtaking destination is utterly mutual, even intimate. And I got to be part of it, all of it, every bit. So much apart of it, in fact, that I can tell you - without referring back to the book - that Jimmy is a fantasy buff who likes to smoke heavily and Thomas is in love with his discman though he listens to everyone's conversations and Siobhan is looking for "The One" in every boy she shags but hates the name-calling and Tara more than protests just to protest because she owns the word 'passion' and Justine is wicked at the accordion piano and longs for the company of Tuba Guy even though they've never spoken and Luca named Pinocchio and Francesca named Luca before she opted for conformity and silence and blending and all the things that make you regret you didn't just come out with who you were the whole way through. The entire time, show-off or no. 

You stop feeling lonely when you read books like these. You can't even remember anything beyond the tears you're shedding, the characters you're committing to memory, the writing that speaks to many of the thoughts you've had but could never articulate before. This book is the reason why I read, why I jump into another book after I've finished the last. I am Siobhan jumping from affairs, on the prowl for that special something that'll give meaning to even a moment amidst all the dull and dreary bits. Saving Francesca is about so much I don't know that you could really consider this a piece of fiction but a steep pocket Marchetta keeps filling with pieces of a life that make a whole, that create something more real than lives people actually lead. So real, in fact, that you've just got to hope you get that lucky. I know I am. I know that this book gave me hope for better days ahead, where I have a chance at finding four girls and two boys (plus many more, in truth) who understand, one boy I really love, one family that can stay complete even when everything falls apart, and so much more. There can only be good tears, good memories, good fears and joys in a book like that, like this, like Saving Francesca, a book that gives you enough thought, fight, hope, and love to save yourself as heroically as Frankie the Brave. 

Be Francesca-brave. Read this book. Change your life, even for a few hours. You'll find you have still more to learn, about yourself, others, and the world you think you live in every day.

Best Book Read in 2014

Parents

Let's get personal for a minute.

Or we won't. Whatever you prefer. But this is my blog after all, so there are going to be days when I'm going to need an outlet for those deep, pensive, sometimes painful thoughts, you know?

And sometimes letting it out can make it all freeing...

It was hard growing up with cutouts of parental perfection all my life. From television to books to games to other people, parents get a good rep all the time. Of course, you have a Judd Nelson circa Breakfast Club type situation now and then, but I remember staring in wonder at the setup for an idyllic family time after time. The beautiful woman who tucked you in, held you while you wept, and kept her own problems, her own fears at bay. You didn’t often see the challenges she faced, or, if you did, the child she raised did not. And the big, strong, protective man beside her who valued family above everything, consoling his daughter through a fight over a blender or gifting his precious son the BB gun he desperately coveted before Christmas dinner. I remember constantly thinking that I wish I had those parents. That God should have chosen those parents, for they are what I would have chosen for myself. That I couldn’t truly be meant for the pair who had me, who were raising me. The woman who toiled away at work and withdrew when she came home, leaving us to the despair of our hearts and the confines of our rooms. Laughter was met with reluctant tolerance, adventure was forbidden, and the mischief so inherent to children was barred in disdain. She kept us to the prison she was sentenced to, for selfishness and for fear. 

I resented her the longer it went on. 

Maybe because she hadn’t always been that way. 

And the man was far worse, a recurring nightmare that hovered around the edges of the mind during the day. A vampire that stole the joy from even the happiest of moments with his volatile moods and vicious rage, tampering with my childhood for as long as I could remember. 

Feeling betrayed by the woman for leaving us in the weekends to the man, when she should not have entrusted us to his keep. 

She never noticed the fear that shook us, the watchful glances as he spoke, as we waited for the temper to spike in his words, for his voice and hands to rise. 

It would be hard to love your parents when you feel as though they abandoned you to the things that unwound them, that kept them from being people wholly focused on your warm care. 

How do you forgive those people when you blamed them for everything they failed to notice, failed to stop, failed to protect, failed to build?

It’s not really a wonder that I didn’t speak to my father during an entire year, that every word I hurled at my mother bore a poisoned tip. 

I couldn’t purge the anguish I felt, nor could I save my sisters from acquiring the same scars. 

I may have even deepened some of them. 

I thought that I would carry this bitterness, this hatred tempered with love for a while yet—until, perhaps, I had children of my own. Maybe for far longer. I didn’t expect to begin to let it go so early on. 

It isn’t until now that I realized twenty years is long enough. 

The elusive "they" say your parents are supposed to fork over %110 to you, to your happiness, to your betterment, to your future. 

But, what if they don’t have %110 to start? 

What if they can’t? 

Because they’re run ragged, beaten, stabbed, quartered by life and the devils who serve it. Or the devils in their own hearts and minds. Who can expect them to find the strength? 

Who? 

Others can and have, but… not all. 

Not all. 

I don’t think I necessarily could have. And when I think like that… well, I feel proud. Of my mom. Because she didn’t have that 110% to start, but she’s been grasping for a little more every day, every year. She’s not without flaws, and yet… And yet, this is the best she’s ever been as a mom. And I commend her for every effort, despite all the setbacks, she’s made to get there. 

And I can learn to forgive. 

To let go. 

To be free. 

I can try.