I bought this book by accident. I'd never intended to purchase two books by the same author for my Twelve Books of Christmas (2018) challenge. Ordinarily the way I handle authors I've never read is to take a bite-sized sample of their work and decide from there whether they are an author I'd like to read again. Generally speaking, I read favorite authors more than twice. Most others fall by the wayside.
So why did I pick up not one, but two books by a romance author I'd never read? I'm not even particularly fond of romance novels!
I wasn't thinking, for one. For another, I was actually having trouble finding holiday-themed books. In this department, Debbie Macomber is quite prolific.
Well, I learned something, at least. I will never knowingly purchase another Debbie Macomber book. In fact, I'll be careful to check the cover for her name before I buy romantic books in the future. Because yes, it's that bad.
Let me talk bout the main thing, first (and hope I remember to get back into the other review to add this in there, too, for those only seeing one or the other).
When I read a holiday novel, I want to be immersed in the holidays. I want to feel Christmas in my bones, even if I'm reading in canicular July. I want the spirit of the holidays to fill me up from the inside out. I want to feel the pressing need to bake cookies, trim the tree, and light candles.
I know some people have reviewed this book and some of her other holiday novels and claimed it made them feel all these things.
Well. Not me. Maybe I'm a humbug, but this book (and Merry and Bright) read to me as though Christmas was merely a convenience, a way to apply a cute, snowy cover and boost holiday sales. It did not do it for me.
Please understand, these are far from the first Christmas novels I've read. They are merely the worst. How Macomber's Christmas books are so popular beats me.
You're probably asking yourself what I do want. "Feeling of Christmas" is pretty vague, isn't it?
I want atmosphere, and setting. I want cozying down by a fire, the hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping for (or with!) friends and family. I want ice skating, snow falling softly outside the window, the excited buzz of spending time with loved ones. I want parties and lights, and I want the author to describe these things in a way which delights my imagination. Instead, this book, and the other I read, sort of drenched that imagination in a wet blanket.
I'm sure some of you would argue this is deliberate, intentional, designed to help the reader to make up their own mind about what this setting looks like. Some readers like that. Not me. I want richness of language, descriptive settings, a world in which the characters come alive. I got none of that.
In either book.
Now here's where things get weird and sort of, well, uncomfortable for me. It's hard to put this information in the first book I read, because it took two to understand it.
Here's the main thing. The stand-out WTF moment I had while reading.
In both books there's a dog named Bogie.
Not just A dog. A dog named Bogie.
I'm confident this name has some significance to the author, but as a reader, this was uncomfortable for me. It pulled me out of the story to note the similarity between the two books. I found it odd and looked for a connection, but the dogs were different breeds (one was a Golden Retriever, and the other I can't remember).
Yes, that bothered me.
The other thing which bothered me, and which these two books have in common, is the male characterization.
Alright, alright. Let me back up.
I don't like her characterization, period. The women are bubbly and happy and bright and enthusiastic and peppy and perfect apart from their minor flaws (which both, ironically, involve their internet habits). They are poorly developed, similar to one another, and honestly boring. They don't read like real women. And this is coming from a woman who does her level best to maintain a positive energy and to spread high vibrations everywhere she goes. (I'm sure this doesn't come through my book reviews, but it remains true anyway.)
They just aren't fully realized people, and I want that in the stories I read. Maybe I even need it. (And maybe I'm taking myself, and these books, way too seriously.)
There are a lot of things I dislike about these books, but the main thing -- the SINGLE THING -- which disgusts me about Debbie Macomber's work is her clear disdain for men. It's as though in her perception women are such perfect creatures they are barely touched by flaws, while men are so loathesome they are made up entirely of flaws with one tiny snip of a worthwhile trait.
These men are deplorable until they suddenly are not. Not only do they rapidly change their minds about people they previously disliked for any number of reasons, but their entire personalities take a dramatic turn at some point within the story line.
With all of this going on, as though I need one more reason to dislike this book, I think it sends a really garbage message to readers.
Please, PLEASE, do not poke the introvert!
We introverts really do want to be left alone. You're not helping us by invading our privacy, pushing yourself on us, or trying to drag us (kicking and screaming) out of our shells. What Julia does to Cain in this book is reprehensible and you should not follow her lead. It's neither cute nor funny, and I'm not talking about the blog she creates for the Twelve Days of Christmas -- I'm talking about pushing herself on this very introverted man who sincerely wants to be left alone.
All around just a crummy book. I won't be purchasing nor reading any more from Debbie Macomber.