Ugh. I can't with Ripper books for a while. My head is swirling. And sadly, this book is just a mess. I promise I'm going to catch up on my reviews. Just not today.
Alright, so it's a new day, and I haven't written a proper book review in at least two months. I moved house, and I also found the bookstagram community on Instagram, and between the two, I barely have had enough time to read, let alone sit down and write reviews. Well my friends, it's time.
I've been feeling really bad lately for writing honest reviews. I'm being truthful when I say that more often than not, if I didn't really like a book much immediately after finishing it, I do usually end up unconsciously pondering it after I'm done, and often times I change my mind. I change my mind, however, I never change my reviews. I feel like first impressions are often the most interesting, so I leave my reviews alone after writing them, and apparently that's making me look like a major jerk.
The opposite can be true as well. I just finished reading Gwendy's Button Box last night, and my initial reaction was that I really liked it. This morning I got up and read a bunch of reviews about the book, and pretty much half the people who reviewed it pointed out plot holes and inconsistencies that I apparently chose to ignore. FML.
For the greater part of my reading life, the internet did not exist. The idea of interacting with not only other readers, but the actual authors themselves was something that never even occurred to me. I used to read a book alone, keep my opinions and theories to myself, and ponder it over the course of time. I didn't start writing book reviews until 2011, and I didn't start heavily interacting with readers and writers until last year. This interaction has been amazing, but it's also affected my reading.
Sometimes I feel as if I've burned bridges with honest reviews. In a few cases, bridges that I never even really had a chance to construct. I understand that writers really put themselves out there with their work. Perhaps that's why I have never tried to write anything myself. A book bares your heart and soul to the world, and no matter what, criticism is going to follow.
Having said that, I think I've been avoiding writing reviews because of Instagram. That bothers me, because I enjoy writing reviews. And mind you, these are just one person's thoughts about a book, and in my case, usually immediately written after finishing it. Anyway, screw it. Let's burn some shit down.
This book. Oh, Patricia Cornwell, this book. You had me with your first attempt at solving the mystery of one of the most notorious and uncaught serial killers of all time. I need to check, but I'm almost certain I gave the first book 5 stars and really enjoyed it. Cornwell's candidate (whom is obviously the Victorian artist Walter Sickert) seemed really plausible. Cornwell presented a number of pieces of compelling evidence, and I bought her theory completely.
Then the shit hit the fan, and Cornwell took a lot of heat for that book. I was completely unaware of any of it. Supposedly, Sickert ancestors and art historians came out of the woodwork and made Cornwell's life a living hell. In response she wrote this book, and basically her entire argument just falls apart as a result. I don't know if she received death threats or lawsuits, but this entire book is basically Cornwall going back to her original argument and stating over and over again phrases like "it's probable", "it's possible", "one can imagine", blah, blah, blah, ad nauseam. She removes any and all conviction from her argument, and basically says it's not impossible that Sickert was the Ripper. But maybe he wasn't. (Even though she firmly believes in her heart that it's him)
On top of all the backtracking and verbiage wrangling, Cornwall then proceeds to claim that since the very beginning of her research the entire project has been cursed. She even states that inexplicable, almost paranormal occurrences have plagued her investigation since day one, and that's where she lost me completely. Not only are Sickert fans giving her a hard time, but apparently the man himself is haunting her from beyond the grave.
Right before I read this book, (and yes, I did read the entire book), I read Bruce Robinson's They All Love Jack. That book deserves its own review, and I will definitely write one, but for now, all I can say is skip this one. I think Cornwell deeply regrets writing her first Ripper book, and I can honestly say that I regret reading the second.