“Bloodwood Creek” is a spectacular mess of a novel. Utter crap, start to finish. The kind of book that has you muttering “oh, for fuck's sake” every five pages as it trips over its own logic. I’ve read shopping lists with more narrative coherence.
The prose is a crime scene. Every sentence is swollen with adjectives like a poisonous toad ready to pop. It’s massively overwritten, an absolute orgy of pointless description, as if McGinnis were haunted by the fear that readers might not understand how very red the red dirt is. No-one talks like this. Not in Darwin, not anywhere.
I’m not going to mince words. This book is trite, geographically confused, and dead boring. A total failure disguised as a mystery. It reads like the rough draft of a bodice-ripper churned out by someone who has never set foot in the Northern Territory, possibly never left their lounge, and definitely never met a functioning adult human. If the book had a smell, it would be hot milk left out on a windowsill. Vaguely familiar, slightly curdled, absolutely unwanted.
The sad thing is the premise could have worked. A vet searching for her missing, almost absurdly beautiful cousin in the outback? Sure, why not. Except McGinnis drops the ball so hard it goes straight through the Earth’s crust. The only thing keeping this book upright is the simple fact she managed to finish it. Given the quality, that must have taken monastic discipline or supernatural stubbornness. And yes, credit to me for finishing this pile of shit. I deserve a medal, or at least a stiff drink.
The so-called mystery? Forget it. It disintegrates instantly into a bad romance. A truly nauseating, saccharine, Mills & Boon-style reunion with Emily’s estranged husband, Ben. It’s a colossal bait-and-switch. One minute we’re meant to fear a killer in the scrub, the next we’re neck-deep in emotional slop so thick you could mortar bricks with it. Aspen might be missing, maybe dead, but who cares, Ben has turned up with a soulful look and a tragic backstory. Spare me.
Emily herself is an immediate write-off. She lands in the NT as an independent vet and then instantly transforms into a submissive, dithering puddle of neediness. Her detective skills are a joke. She spends the entire book drinking coffee, flashing Aspen’s photo at randoms, and searching in places she knows her cousin wouldn’t have gone. It’s investigative work so lazy it borders on performance art. I hit page 115 and realised she had made zero progress. Not slow burn. Absolute stagnation.
And the research? Christ on a bicycle. It’s painfully sloppy. Basic geography is wrong. Timeline is wrong. Simple facts are wrong. I was physically wincing, like someone had stabbed me with a compass point dipped in bullshit. The anachronisms are so bizarre they take on a kind of eldritch quality, as if the book exists in a parallel universe where nothing works properly.
Then there’s Aspen, the “beautiful cousin,” whose only personality trait is being so stunning she might cause aircraft to crash. The book treats her beauty with such reverence it becomes grotesque, a talisman waved around to justify Emily’s leap to the “white slavers” theory. Yes, white slavers. My soul left my body at that point.
And the serial killer subplot? Utterly infuriating. A red herring so undercooked it’s basically sushi.
“There’s a serial killer.”
“They haven’t caught him.”
“He was seen buying Twisties at a servo somewhere.”
Then at the end: “Oh, never mind, they caught him. Nothing to do with anything.”
This isn’t plotting. This is someone mumbling through a story they barely remember.
As for Rick’s relationship with Maria or Aspen or whatever tangled nonsense the book wants us to accept, it’s gross. Full stop. The kind of slimy, toxic dynamic the narrative tries to wave away like a fart in an elevator.
By the final chapters, I was running on spite alone. “Bloodwood Creek” is a catastrophic misfire. A failure of research, characterisation, pacing, logic, and taste. It genuinely made me question how this thing got published. Then it gave me hope, because if this can make it to print, we’re all in with a fighting chance.
One and a half stars. Only because it didn’t actively burst into flames while I was reading it.