Nemesis by Jo Nesbø
My Rating: 2/5 Stars

Sometimes I feel as though I’m genetically hardwired to be a contrarian. Not because I actually like being different than everyone else or going against popular opinion, nor do I actually want to stand on the mountaintop and scream “All you fuckers are wrong.” Because let’s face it, it’s easy to follow everyone else, to march in line and in step, even if it sometimes means you’re headed for a cliff or the occasional mountain lion. Nor do I get some sort of sick, demented pleasure from bashing other authors and other people’s books, because I’m right there in the trenches with you, buddy. Not necessarily holding your hand, but we’re in the same foxhole, staring out at the same battlefield, and trying to make heads or tails of the opposition. Not that writing is a war, but it sometimes feels that way, to get those pesky words down on paper, and then actually have others get behind the words that you have written, until they make them their own.

So what does all of this mean for NEMESIS? Well, if you’re looking at the date I started this novel (by the way, that is not a misprint), and the day I finished it (that’s not a misprint either), there’s a massive gap between the two. Where I know I had plenty of fun, and most of this fun was had while not reading said novel. Does that mean it’s badly written? No, absolutely not. But it felt repetitive and redundant, and I was never fully engaged in the story. To be honest, it wasn’t even really all that close of a call. But I wanted to be engaged, I wanted to be fully invested, and I wanted to like this story, because so many others have called it a great and wondrous read with high ratings and glowing reviews. But I just can’t consider myself one of them. Maybe I was built with a different set of Legos.

You see, the characters resembled emotionless pits; the dialogue felt trite and pedestrian; the plot plunked along like a Corvette ambling down the train tracks on a Sunday afternoon, to the point that I had to reread the back cover copy to figure out what it was I had just finished; and I ended up so lost within the twists and turns of the story that I forgot where the heck I even was.

If I were to sum up this novel, I’d say it made me want to kick Justin Bieber. Which isn’t that much different from how I normally feel. What I really want to find is the novel that makes me want to hug the Biebs. I’m thinking it’s not possible, but I’m going to continue to hold out hope that it’s out there somewhere, and I will continue to expend energy looking for it.

Faces Of The Gone by Brad Parks
My Rating: 3/5 Stars

Reading over half of a novel while hyped up on cough drops and missing a night’s sleep because you’ve been traveling for approximately 20 hours, as you fly into and out of Chicago (in the middle of a winter storm) and out of Boston (before the big one hits) and you end up being stuck on parked planes for a total of three hours (added up from two occasions) and add a Las Vegas redeye to your traveling regime may not have been the best course of action for my retention ability, but FACES OF THE GONE managed to help me keep my sanity, prevented me from screaming at gate agents and flight attendants and fellow travelers and relentless chatterboxes and unhappy babies and also kept me from hurling myself out of a plate glass window and onto the tarmac in front of a 737. So it has that going for it.

Carter Ross may suck at relationships and cry in front of female companions with virtually no provocation, but he still manages to have a certain charm and debonair nature, even if he has trouble getting laid from a woman who wears a biological clock around her left wrist. And he may not always know where the story is going, but he can expertly run in place or skip a meal or two if it gets him a little closer to the prized front page. He may not always have the best way of communicating either, along with a few of his companions and colleagues, but at the end of the day he’s still the best man for the job.

Even if he manages to get himself in the middle of some serious shit, he’s not about to back up or back down. He injects a bit of wit in Newark, instead of the current drug of choice, and he finds himself amidst a cast of characters that need little introduction. If I ever find myself on the streets of Newark, I’ll barrel through stoplights and intersections in an armored vehicle with bulletproof glass and an MK47 riding shotgun.

The story didn’t click for me right away, but once I shoved my hand in The Stuff, I managed to find my high just fine and even found myself enjoying the ride, despite the traveling situation that had developed between Massachusetts and New Mexico. Stuffing your carryon full of books helps ease this pain tremendously.

The Sweetness At The Bottom Of The Pie by Alan Bradley
My Rating: 3/5 Stars

If I were an eleven-year-old girl, I’d like to think I might resemble Flavia de Luce. Precocious, ubiquitous, and intelligent, she’s filled with energy and life, refers to her sisters as Feely and Daffy, and has an unbounding curiosity about the world around her, even though there’s always the chance she could blow up Bishop’s Lacey with her latest science experiment. Not knowing what trouble she might find herself in next kicked my curiosity into overdrive. Her voice kept me finely tuned into her mesmerizing world, as my eyes widened in surprise and awe.

Filled with a cheery lightheartedness, I couldn’t help but smile at some of her adventures, even if I did wonder slightly how she managed to insert herself so readily into the crime solving arena, without so much as a stray comment from the commanding officers. But it was her sweet escapes and near misses that felt a tad more contrived and too convenient, rather than showcasing the work of an expert planner or master crafter. The story would have been better served with hints or groundwork rather than fanfare eureka moments that provided narrow escapes.

While I realize a plethora exclamation points are a stylistic choice, and I’ll even grant that said exclamation points added to Flavia’s voice and helped enhance her childlike wonder, I couldn’t help my burning desire to pound a few out of the page and cry “Curses!” all the way to Mother England.

THE SWEETNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PIE proved rather sweet indeed, but it did have the hint of a bitter aftertaste, which prevented me from rating this book higher.