As they do in John Oliver's hometown in England, I do my Halloween stuff, well mostly read horror themed books in February as well. So keeping up with that impromptu tradition, I picked this up. At first I was liking it well enough. I was like gimme more contemporary diverse authors, no need to Walter Mosley this up. Let's face it, we are not Luke Cage.
But a quarter of way in, it started to go downhill and I suddenly realized this was rather a bland offering. Whenever I read badly written books, I think of Stephen King. I know there is no correlation between those two things. It is just that King has written so much on how not to write badly, that I can't not think of him or his advice when I chance upon horrendous writing. Nicest thing I can say about this novel is that it is properly written and that it's grammatically sound. But that's probably by default.
I was going to give it only one star. Then I bumped it up to three, because some of the stories in it were really great. From any number of them, a better book could have sprung, but those stories did buttress this mess and it is worth a skim because of that. In an odd way, this does remind me of an infinitely better novel; Gargoyle by David Andrews. I hope Andrews has written another book by now. Even though I had loved Gargoyle, for some reason I disliked it immensely too.
And I'll admit, there is something to living through the nightmares of others. That's scarring in a way that even our own rotten dreams are not.
Incidentally, I bought this book with a girl who is more than just a friend and yet she is less than what she could be.