Paige Turner is at a crossroads in her life. She packs up her daughter Mati and her step-mother Alice and takes a trip to the country, leaving her husband behind. She's hoping to find something about her past, about the mother she lost as a young girl. But has she bitten off more than she can chew?
When Shelby Pomeroy’s husband dies unexpectedly, she heads home to Tennessee, a young widow with a young daughter and a lot of debt. Hoping to put the past behind her, she settles in with the family she left five years ago, but it turns out trouble has followed her home…
Dana Nolan is the sole survivor of Doc Holiday, a sexual sadist who she killed to escape. Returning to her hometown with a head injury is not what Dana had planned for her mid-twenties, but life in her small town gets interesting when she tries to solve a seven year old mystery which has been sitting in her subconscious and her injury has brought to the fore.
What makes a writer? Is it living the tortured life of an artist, or is it actually getting your shit together and... you know... writing?
If this was any less erotic, grandparents would be involved. (The fact that the author failed to include any was most likely an accident.)
If this was as good as it could potentially have been, plus featured a giant walking robot, then Pinol would be my new favourite author.
If this was an alcoholic drink, it would be a sweet and surprisingly potent plum wine, brewed to an old family recipe.
A story about a woman having everything she took for granted pulled out from under her, taking a big hit, and finding a way to get her life back in a way that works.
If this was a private schoolkid, it would be the one who runs the odds on the nags and earns thousands of pounds from students and teachers alike before he's hit grade nine. And every year his parents receive an uninspiring report card bemoaning his lack of interest in the smallest measure of academic self-improvement.
I could have loved this tale of intrigue, nazis and cute CIA agents, but the ridiculously stereotyped nature of the characters let me down. Which is a shame, because I really enjoyed aspects of the writing style.
If this was a comic which is about a thousand times better, it would be The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
If this was edited with a hatchet, you'd get half a funny book; you could then threaten the author with the hatchet until he produced the other half.
If this was a residence, it would be a garret in a boarding house in a part of town that was once architecturally significant and dignified but is now decrepit and largely abandoned. With the door nailed shut and a sulphurous smell. (In fact, I'm sure Machen could do better than "sulphurous"...)
If this was lunch, it would be a Wendy's hot dog with everything.
Feeling like you just haven't had enough spy/CIA conspiracy in your life lately? Lacking in running, gun fights, car chases, and general confusion and accusations about the CIA? Might be time to read Panic...
If this was written before anyone had heard of the author, it would get a pretty patchy reception.
If this was funnier, contained no sex whatsoever, five times less interesting to look at, but only slightly more suitable for children, it would be a The Charles Schulz Story, published 1971. (Have you READ early Peanuts? Good grief.)
If this was written by a middle-class douchebag with all the observational skill but zero percent of the humour, it would be any Ian Fleming book.
Book review: The Best A Man Can Get by John O'Farrell
If this was a razor, it would be a Gillette Mach 3 disposable.