This certainly is a book, all right, and it’s got huge numbers of positive reviews, so surely I’ll enjoy it, right? Right?
Title: How my Neighbor Stole Christmas
Author: Meghan Quinn
READER: I DID NOT FINISH THIS.
Oh, no! Why not? Right from the first page, the main character felt like a toddler. All her thoughts, such as they were, were conveyed in short, simple, choppy sentences that nevertheless found room to dangle participles all the hell over the place. She was peevish at having to care for an elderly great-aunt, to the point of callousness.
I suppose I could have persevered through the this-sounds-like-a-kid tone, but reviews kept referencing the spiciness of the book, and I dreaded the prospect of hitting a sex scene told from the perspective of someone whose first line is, “You know, you never truly get over the first pucker of your nips when that mountain air hits you.”
Oh, yeah? Prove it.
Poe’s lesser-known work:
Unfortunately for yours truly, Aunt Cindy had a recent fall–the telltale occurrence of many an octogenarian. (loc 94)
Hats with noses:
Dad consoled her while he wore a straw hat with a sunblock-painted nose. (loc 103)
Ah yes, the struggle of managing a whole extra syllable:
“Something has to be done, someone has to take care of her,” Mom squealed about her only living relative.
Did I mention, to me and my sister, she’s Great-Aunt Cindy? But what a freaking mouthful, so we just say Aunt Cindy. (loc 107)
Yeah, I’d drive into the mountains and head into the house too…oh wait, part of that happened on the drive up:
Taran whips the pillow I couldn’t live without into my chest and says, “You’re fine,” before picking up the bag of snacks I made her stop to get before driving into the mountains and heading back into the house. (loc 121)
But honestly, nothing really sets the tone of this book better than the poem it opens with:
Martha said it was because he
was alone and very single.
Mae said it was because he was
never named the town Kringle.
*
But to me, the true reason
is a story far too sad.
For at the age of eighteen, he
lost both mom and dad.
*
Whatever the reason, his loss,
or his status of being single,
He spent Christmas in the dark,
hating the cheery people of Kringle.
Please note I’ve mercifully only given you three verses of the author’s seventeen.
In conclusion: This might be to someone’s taste (I mean, it obviously must be: it has literal thousands of gushing reviews), but it was not, alas, to mine.
Fuggy Hoff, NL 