A few weeks ago I read a review of a book that I thought I would for sure love. I tore the review out of the magazine, and stuck in on the fridge. A few days ago, I made it to the bookstore to get the much waited for book. It had so much promise. The best of both worlds. It promised to feed both of my reading addictions. My constant need to be in the middle of a good book, and my love for trashy star rags. Oh yes. It would be like heaven.
That is, until I started reading it. My six-year-old can come up with more variable sentence structures than the two dimwits who wrote this book. Seriously, forty pages in, and I am not sure if they have ventured into the world of complex or compound sentences. I know for damn sure they couldn't tell me the difference between the two. I normally read at least hundred pages in a day. One day. Between work and kids and dinner and cleaning the house. In four days, I have muddled through forty pages, drug down by the overwhelming number of simple sentences beginning with "I." "I've got to get to the back room." "I wobble my way through the distorted faces." "I step inside the all-white room." "I murmur an apology" All of these and more in just two paragraphs. I need variety ladies. Variety. I need a rythm and flow to the book. Not a dadadadadadada all the way through. Take me on a ride. Draw me in. Use your words....and in more than one simple freakin' sentence structure. So to you, Celebutante, I am extremely unhappy. You are not the book of my dreams. You are a waste of $17 (thank goodness for that membership card, or it would have been more).