Creative writing programs tend to get a lot of flack these days in the literary media, but if anyone ever needs Exhibit One about why they are necessary, this book is it.
Katherine Howe needed either A) a Novel Writing 101 course; B) a smart, no-holds barred critique group; and/or C) an editor who actually read her work.
Based on the printed page, she benefited from none of the above.
The painful tells?
Howe never met an adjective or adverb that she didn't cram into a sentence.
Her heroine, Connie, describes herself by looking in a mirror. It's hackneyed in a first-person POV, and beyond amateurish in third-person POV.
Every single detail is described. Connie is supposed to be a Harvard Ph.D candidate. Therefore, as a reader I easily believe she knows how to make mint tea. But no, Howe has to tell us about boiling the water, tearing open the tea packet, and putting the tea bag into the hot water. Enough already.
And then there is Howe's fetish for accents. Look, we get it. The book is set in the greater Boston area. They speak funny (to Howe, at least.) A little phonetic dialect is fine. But every single character from that area, every single time? Beyond annoying and distracting to the reader. Besides, Connie grew up in Concord, Mass - shouldn't she, y'know, sound just like them?!
But Connie has bigger problems. She's a Ph.D candidate at Harvard in Colonial American studies, a student so bright her oral exams blew away her advisers. Yet she doesn't recognize "Deliverance" as a possible Puritan name, despite referencing the equally Puritanical-named Increase Mather in her orals, and it takes her pages to figure out that a "receipt" book might refer not to accounts, but to recipes or instructions. I'm not sure what Connie had to read to prepare for her exams, but it wasn't historical novels or she would have recognized the word right away. If Connie is an example of the best and the brightest Harvard has to offer the world, Harvard has some serious 'splaining to do.
But her lack of critical thinking and period awareness isn't Connie's biggest problem. No, Connie instead commits the most egregious sin a fictional heroine is capable of: she's BORING. No faults, no quirks, no reason for me to root for her or care about her finishing her Ph.D.
The only reason why I'm still reading this book and not figuratively throwing it against the wall is because the 17th century interludes are fairly well-written (especially compared to the modern story) and because the book received so much critical praise - surely, somewhere, somehow, an actual story does break out?
UPDATE: Skimmed the book to the end.
No, it does not get better.
Scattered thoughts: Connie has to be the most annoying twit of a heroine ever. And she's stupid. So stupid. She keeps stumbling over the painfully obvious. There is absolutely no way to suspend disbelief and buy that she is a student at ITT Tech, much less Harvard (and I apologize to ITT Tech.)
The villain was obvious from the first appearance, and was only missing a handlebar mustache to twirl.
So we're supposed to believe that Connie is the descendent of this long line of "cunning" women, and her New Agey mother never bothered to mention it? Just let Connie walk into this blind, even though Connie gave her mother ample opportunities to tell her? Nice mother. (Of course, Connie is so willfully obtuse, one does have some sympathy for the mother.)
A dangling plot point: all the men connected to Connie's family die painful, tragic deaths that aren't connected to others' villainy - so isn't Connie's two-dimensional boyfriend still in some danger? Why isn't anyone concerned about that?
Not to mention that Connie just waltzes out of a library with a 17th century book in her possession, and no one seems to care that she, in effect, just stole a priceless item. (Plus, Howe just jumps over Connie's actual discovery of the book, even though the search for the item occupies a good 3/4 of the book. Way to tell, not show, Howe.)
And above all, we're supposed to suspend disbelief that there is an unknown Salem witch, one hung in the presence of other documented victims, despite the wealth of the contemporary sources still in existence and the reams of scholarship on the subject? SRSLY?
This book is so full of plot holes, contrivances, leaden writing and just plain stupidity it makes me suspect any and all established critics who gave it a positive review. Booklist, your starred reviews are on notice.