For those who don't know:
My Sister's Keeper is about a girl who is seeking legal emancipation from the parents who genetically engineered her to be a donor for her sister who is dying of leukemia. Apparently, the straw that broke the camel's back was when her mother insists that she give a kidney to her sister. Honestly, I'm not sure how it ends since I didn't finish it, but I'm guessing that Anna doesn't have to give her sister the kidney, consequently Kate dies, which makes the brother realize that it's childish and dumb to burn down buildings just to get the attentions of your parents, and then the pushy mother is inexplicably hit by a truck because karma demands justice. Or something like that anyway.
Okay, so maybe I didn't actually finish My Sister's Keeper. Technically, I probably shouldn't even count it as my third book of the year for that very reason. But in my defense, if sticking through 300 pages of a book that I was thoroughly annoyed with nearly the entire time doesn't count as giving a serious effort, then I don't know what would. (Well, I suppose reading the last 50 pages would, but that just isn't going to happen now, is it?)
So here's the deal with this book. Thousands of women adore it. In fact, every time I've heard people talk about it, it's been with nothing short of glowing praise. I admit that the premise of the novel is intriguing and perhaps in the hands of a better writer it could have been something great, but at the risk of incurring the wrath of any number of anonymous female commentors I'm going to just come out and say it - I don't think Jodi Picoult is a very good writer. So there. It's out. (Please don't claw my eyes out or pull my hair.)
I can't really put my finger on what bugged me so much about this book, but I think a lot of it comes from Picoult's inability to create truly believable characters. For instance, no seventeen-year-old boy refers to a hot woman as a "bodacious babe," precious few thirteen-year-old girls throw around words like "centenarian," and no fifteen-year-old girl would say that she's "doped up enough to make Ozzy and Sharon look like Ozzie and Harriet." And since there were no shortage of passages like these, I spent a lot of my time reading with gritted teeth.
But lots and lots of other people loved the book, so maybe I'm just full of it. It wouldn't be the first time. (Nor the last, for that matter.)
Up next: Love is a Mix Tape, by Rob Sheffield
My Sister's Keeper is about a girl who is seeking legal emancipation from the parents who genetically engineered her to be a donor for her sister who is dying of leukemia. Apparently, the straw that broke the camel's back was when her mother insists that she give a kidney to her sister. Honestly, I'm not sure how it ends since I didn't finish it, but I'm guessing that Anna doesn't have to give her sister the kidney, consequently Kate dies, which makes the brother realize that it's childish and dumb to burn down buildings just to get the attentions of your parents, and then the pushy mother is inexplicably hit by a truck because karma demands justice. Or something like that anyway.
Okay, so maybe I didn't actually finish My Sister's Keeper. Technically, I probably shouldn't even count it as my third book of the year for that very reason. But in my defense, if sticking through 300 pages of a book that I was thoroughly annoyed with nearly the entire time doesn't count as giving a serious effort, then I don't know what would. (Well, I suppose reading the last 50 pages would, but that just isn't going to happen now, is it?)
So here's the deal with this book. Thousands of women adore it. In fact, every time I've heard people talk about it, it's been with nothing short of glowing praise. I admit that the premise of the novel is intriguing and perhaps in the hands of a better writer it could have been something great, but at the risk of incurring the wrath of any number of anonymous female commentors I'm going to just come out and say it - I don't think Jodi Picoult is a very good writer. So there. It's out. (Please don't claw my eyes out or pull my hair.)
I can't really put my finger on what bugged me so much about this book, but I think a lot of it comes from Picoult's inability to create truly believable characters. For instance, no seventeen-year-old boy refers to a hot woman as a "bodacious babe," precious few thirteen-year-old girls throw around words like "centenarian," and no fifteen-year-old girl would say that she's "doped up enough to make Ozzy and Sharon look like Ozzie and Harriet." And since there were no shortage of passages like these, I spent a lot of my time reading with gritted teeth.
But lots and lots of other people loved the book, so maybe I'm just full of it. It wouldn't be the first time. (Nor the last, for that matter.)
Up next: Love is a Mix Tape, by Rob Sheffield
Labels: authors P-T, books, coming-of-age, fiction
2 Comments:
I HATED HATED HATED this book. In fact, I didn't even finish it. It was proposed as a common reading experience for freshmen a few years ago. Good thing they chose The Things They Carried (one of my top 10 favorite books of all time0 instead.
you should finish it. the end is what counts
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