A Bad Review - Soulmates by Holly Bourne

The official blurb:

‘Soulmates do exist. But not as you think. Every so often to people are born who are the perfect match for one another. Soulmates.

But what if meeting your soulmate is earth-shattering – literally?

An epic electrifying and extraordinary debut about falling in love’

My Thoughts:

  

       Sigh. I hate to say it, but this book, in my opinion, was really not very good at all. I expected so much. I think that might be the biggest issue I had with this book. Having had my mind blown by Bourne’s second novel ‘The Manifesto on How To Be Interesting’ I thought that Bourne’s burst into the literary world, her grand entrance, would be even better – but sadly I was proved wrong.

         ‘Soulmates’ is a book that, though the blurb does not give much away, has a spectacular plot concept! The story is based around the idea that Soulmates do exist, but when a pair meets, the chemical reaction between them is so strong that it their hormones can cause storms, earthquakes and huge life-threatening natural disasters. There is a secret government facility that works to frantically try to prevent these soulmate disasters from happening. This plotline, combined with my history with Bourne is what sold the book to me.

The story is told through a first person perspective from one half of two Soulmates, 17 year old Poppy Lawson, as well as an interesting occasional third person extracts of the actions of those running the government facility.

     

    This is where the goodness ends.

         For starters, this fantastic, awesome, mindblowing idea of a plotline fell absolutely flat on its face. It’s a firework that never goes off. We spend a long 450 pages listening to Poppy Lawson whine on and on about how ‘Oooh Nooo… I’m in love! But I can’t be in loooove, I can’t actually like a boy! I am such a feminist!’ Poppy is one of these irritatingly strong-minded characters who seems to think that if she shows so much as a wink of affection for a member of the opposite sex then she has tainted the rights of women everywhere and is no longer a true feminist. Poppy had lots of likable qualities, her bitter confidence and sarcasm were amusing and interesting at times, but I feel, at least for me, this was broadly overshadowed by her sheer close-mindedness.

  

       Within those 480 pages we also explore Poppy’s blossoming relationship with her soulmate, local bad-boy, Noah. Noah’s in a band, a very tortured soul - Their eyes meet across a crowded room, one of his gigs actually, and of course, the attraction is instant.

  

       As a hopeless romantic myself, I enjoyed Noah and Poppy’s grand gestures and first steps immensely… at first. However, they’d been going out for one week, 200 pages, when the ‘I-love-you-I-need-you-please-never-leave-me’s started spouting and it all just got a bit… sickening. We get it. You like each other, you really don’t have to describe, in detail, every single time he blinks, coughs or looks at you. I mean, I’m not love-expert, but when they started speaking about how their children would look everything seemed a little unbelievable. There were no subplots, just the batting of eyelashes and a weirdly excessive amount of lust.

    

     I pressed on, wondering if the last 50 pages could save the book for me but… no. I feel like Bourne wrote the majority of the book in a rose-scented haze and only snapped out if it to write the ending when her publisher started phoning up, gabbing about deadlines and delivery dates. It is only in the ending of the book that the idea of the government facility actually comes properly in to play but with the rest of the novel styled as a contemporary romance, this seemed more than a little out of place. It was rushed, random and sadly, I didn’t like it.

  

       However, that’s not to say this book was entirely unlikable, in fact, I have read many reviews of people who thought the romance was, sweet, and well-thought-out with the twist at the end exciting the reader a suitable amount and tying a nice red ribbon around the story as a whole – but that’s  not how it was for me.

  

       For me ‘Soulmates’ was a two star book which should have been a five and without any substantial subplot or character depth other than the two soulmate’s deep unending love for each other it just didn’t cut it for me.

        

Three Word Rating: eh, okay, mediocre

The Bad Review

        You may have noticed (at least I hope you have) that I try and make my blog, Prescription Fiction a very light hearted, non-confrontational, comfortable place for all you lovely chaps to explore. I try my best to use non-offensive language, a fairly positive tone and just to be double sure that I come across as friendly to you lot I grin constantly while writing these blogs (actually, I might stop that, my face is starting to hurt). Now, all this fluffy, goodness-and-light pleasantry business may seem just fine and dandy to you, however being nice in the book blogging industry (If I call it an industry I sound way more professional) has one fatal flaw – I cannot write a bad review.

         I have tried. I have sat down, boring book in hand, scowl firmly set upon my face, ready to write some hard-hitting, brutally- honest blog posts. But it’s as if as soon as my fingers hit the keyboard all that anger just slips away and my head is crammed full of butterflies, rainbows and such a beautiful happiness that I simply cannot type a single tainted word. It sucks.

  

       So far, on this blog, I have not uttered a single sour word towards any book at all. I have pointed out flaws, yes, but more by way of creative criticism, two stars and a wish if you don’t mind reverting to primary school terms. I have avoided the bad review at all costs. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I am a reading saint, immune to all negative bookish thoughts, enjoying every book presented to me, and it isn’t as I have been lying to you, swearing to you that the worst books are the best, tricking you into a day or two of bash-your-brain out monotony. No, I have simply avoided the bad review entirely. Making a conscious decision not to write about the books I don’t like. And why I hear you ask curiously through your computer screens, well, let me tell you.

        Guilt. Guilt is what stops me from tearing a book to shreds for all to see. I get that funny little knot in my tummy just thinking mean thoughts about my book. I would like to be honest with you, telling you about why I hated that love triangle or why the author’s sentence structure made me what to rip off my own eyebrows, but every time I hover my hands by the computer, ready to tell you what any professional book critic would, I imagine being the author of that book and finding a review like that.

  

       Every book you read has an author. Someone who sat for months, sometimes years behind a keyboard, dreaming up a world and spilling every ounce of literary brilliance they possess into the pages of a book. I have such a major attachment to some books, I will happily fight their corner in any way I can – if that’s me, I can’t even begin to imagine how strong a bond an author must have with their own book. How must they feel when they read a harsh review? We’re practically attacking their children!  I cannot bear to be responsible for that.

 

How could I ever be mean to Moran :'c

        That’s, not to say, however, that I have a problem with others who are bold enough to publish bad reviews, quite the opposite actually. I read bad reviews regularly, they’re juicy and interesting, and if it’s a book I did happen to like, I like to hear the different perspective. I respect the skill in being able to politely tell your audience that you disliked a book.

 However, there are times when that can go too far. I hate to see bloggers violently destroying a book without reason, writing only for the purposes of an interesting post, as opposed to informing others or expressing an opinion. I cringe when I see bloggers bite and snap over some poor guy’s debut novel on the basis that they ‘just didn’t like the book’. That is not a reason that is an opinion. If you really must be so harsh and aggressive about a book, I want you to give at least one good valid reason as to why, otherwise, you’re simply being mean. Not cool.

I could turn John Green into this...

I’m scared that if I write a bad review, this will be the case. All of this. I will write out all my negativity, hit publish and you guys will all read it and think I’m being terribly rude and mean and nasty! You will press un-follow and spread the world of my disgusting, evil character. I will never blog again. What’s more, the author of that book will somehow stumble upon my post. They will read my words with a look of misery on their face, one sad tear rolling down their cheek as they realise that they have failed as an author. They decide never to write again. With one post I will have kicked myself out of the blogging world, ruined someone’s life and looked like a prat all at the same time. Horrific, right? In my mind, this is the only outcome of writing a bad review and it terrifies me.

However, I do want to be the best blogger I could possibly be. I want to be able to talk about some of the books I didn’t like, start discussions, find out if you guys feel the same. So I write to you all today, looking for advice. I want to know! Do you guys want bad reviews? Do they make you cringe? Laugh? Do you like them? Do you read them? Tell me down in the comments, please! Because, honestly, I’m horrifically bad at the bad review.

Sorry, Percy Jackson

Here’s a confession that isn’t going to be easy… Promise you won’t tell anybody? Right – I have never read any of the Percy Jackson series.

I know! I know! It’s terrible. It’s awful. It’s practically a crime in the book world! If I was saying this on tumblr I might actually have been hunted down and locked away, but, I’m afraid it’s true. Talk to me about camp-half blood, Greek mythology or funny dyslexic heroes and all you’ll be met with is a blank stare and a polite cough.

It’s not that I haven’t tried. Trust me – I have. I bought the book earlier this year and intended to have finished the series and be excitedly scribbling out fan-fiction by the end of June. I would finally be part of this manic Percy craze that had consumed the universe. I felt like reading this series would be my rite of passage into the book blogging world, I would be accepted into some kind of unspoken cult!

But, it just didn’t happen. I have picked up Percy Jackson a countless number of times, my determination growing more forceful every time – I would read this book. I would! But, each time, without fail, I would reach chapter four and lose all interest, my motivation vanishing like it was part of some clever magic trick. If this is frustrating for you, imagine how irritable it got me. I was trying so hard, so ridiculously hard, to read this book and make the world happy but I just couldn’t do it. It was just so… boring.

I could practically hear the pitch forks being sharpened as I wrote that word. Boring. I found Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief monotonously boring. So shoot me! Tear up my membership card and ban me from the metaphorical bookblogging club! It’s true! For a girl of my age Percy Jackson is boring.

My issue, I think, is that I never read Percy Jackson as a child. If I had read it aged 9 or 10 like everybody else then I know it would consumed my world in one large bite. But read it for the first time now, it just doesn’t do anything for me. It’s a children’s book. The writing style is meant for children. You can’t expect me to switch from my heart diet of teen fiction and angst to a simplistically written fantasy just like that! I can’t connect with the characters or the story because there just isn’t enough depth and substance for an older reader to work with. This sounds so pretentious, but it wasn’t Percy Jackson’s plotline that turned me so completely off, but the writing style simply wasn’t sophisticated enough for me.

I know a lot of Percy Jackson fans my age and older and they will defend the series with their life. They are completely unable to understand what’s stopping me from diving head-first into their world. They would happily read that first book over and over again forever if they had to, why shouldn’t I be able to do the same? But, for them, the first Percy Jackson book is a nostalgia thing. It holds meaning for them as a book that was so important to them growing up. They can read that first chapter and feel like the excited little kid again. For me, Percy Jackson holds no meaning or significance. It is just another children’s book that sadly I have long since outgrown.

‘Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone’ I think is a prime example of this. I can switch from ‘The Lord of the Flies’ to that faithful first book so easily you would think they were of the same genre. Harry Potter is familiar and warm for me. It reminds me of being 7 years old and yelling the word ‘muggle’ at anyone who crossed me. It brings me back to one of my first experiences of getting excited over a book or a series. However, I know that if I read that book now, it wouldn’t do anything for me, I probably wouldn’t enjoy it.

You don’t expect a teenager to shop in the children’s section usually. You don’t ever see a sixteen-year old girl walking out of Waterstones excitedly with the next ‘Goosebumps’ book in her hands. In fact, some would even ridicule me if I did. So why should you expect me to react any differently to Percy Jackson. I will not deny that it is well-written book with a spectacular plotline as long as you do not deny that it was not intended for my age range.

I’m sorry. I really am sorry. For writing this blog, for thinking these thoughts, for not forcing myself through Percy Jackson in the first place! I don’t mean to offend such a massive, passionate fanbase or ridicule your personal reading tastes – if you’re excited about Percy Jackson then that’s fantastic! But, Percy Jackson just isn’t for me. He wasn’t there when I was the book-curious 8 year old who needed him and he’s only now appeared that I am a teenager reader with no interest whatsoever. I’m going to stop pretending that I’m ever going to read the series. I’m going to put the book on my bookshelf and it probably won’t move for many, many years. This is just way that I feel. I’m sorry, Percy. I’m sorry.

The Three Book Curse

  

          This week’s blog may seem a little bit far-fetched but I need you to hear me out. I’ve made a discovery that I believe may prove the existence of dark voodoo magic in the book world. Maybe. It’s just a theory, and feel free to yell at me down in the comments section but it would be morally wrong not to let you in on such a major scientific revelation.

     

       So here it is: I believe that the third book in every dystopian series is cursed. I really do think that there is some kind of mystical nonsense going on here because no matter how untouchable an author may seem, as soon as they release that long-anticipated third and final novel, the entire series seems to just crumble into the dirt.

   

         Okay, so maybe that’s a little harsh. But seriously, I haven’t in a very long time read the third book in a trilogy and thought: ‘Yes, that was brilliant. That met all of my expectations and more!’ Every time I get my eager trembling hands on that final book the same thing happens: I buy it, so ridiculously enthusiastic to embark on what I am sure will be the most glorious, eye-opening, heart-stopping adventure I have ever been on and by the time I’m finished all I can think is… Meh.

  

          But, this wouldn’t be science without a little evidence now would it? Well, sadly I can provide you with quite a lot. The best example I have of this would be Suzanne Collins’ ‘Hunger Games: Mockingjay . The series had so much promise. Everyone was talking about it! When the second book came out the whole world was setting itself alight with ‘Catching Fire’ excitement. Walk into any high-school during the hunger games craze and I can guarantee you would see at least five three-finger salutes, seven Katniss braids and two furious battles over who was best: Finnick, Gale or Peeta? But sadly, after everyone had finally blazed their way through the third and final book there was an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

  

          The book wasn’t bad by any means but, let’s face it, it wasn’t great. It wasn’t the shining golden trophy of a book that everyone had been waiting for, more a 3^rd place bronze medal. Bronze is okay, it’s still winning, but it isn’t exactly… desirable. At first everyone was shell-shocked. How could this possibly be? We began to grieve. Pretending it hadn’t happened. Denying with all our might that the book might be anything less than wonderful, amazing, golden. But, now that some time has passed, I think we can accept it – it really wasn’t very good.

   

         Why though? Why wasn’t it very good? Lauren Oliver’s ‘Requiem’, Veronica Roth’s ‘Allegiant’, Scott Westerfield’s ‘Specials’, Malorie Blackman’s ‘Checkmate’,  Ally Condie’s ‘Reached’…   The list goes on. How is it that so many promising series’ could plunge so horrifically into mediocrity?

  

          Maybe there is too much pressure on the writer to finish well? Once you’ve written two of the most astounding books you’ve ever written it must be very difficult to muster the same incredible amount of writing-brilliance from inside to do it for a third and final time. How in the world do you come up with an ending that will do the series any justice? Everyone’s watching and waiting for you to write a book so good that it could compete with the bible in greatness. How the hell do you do it? You don’t. Maybe it’s impossible.

           But as I professor in the science of reading I have done my research and I know that this just doesn’t prove true. No, the blame for this book-based tragedy should not be placed on the writer but, in fact, on us, the reader. It is our fault. We just get too darn excited!

  

          We can’t help ourselves, especially with the dystopian genre! It’s new and modern with juicy plotlines and gorgeous love-interests. When books are this good, how can we help ourselves? Besides, it’s fun to get all hyped up! Dystopian fiction seems to be able to create a buzz like no other genre. Entire communities are formed in appreciation for the series’, stocked with enough fanart to put London’s National Gallery to shame.

   

         But we get so carried away with all our excitement that we accidentally give the series impossible, unreachable expectations. Two great books is enough to pull down the galaxy and put stars in our eyes. If the first and second books were that good then the third book has to be even better! The third book will be the book to end all books! Right?

    

        Wrong. It’s our greatest downfall. We fall in love with a series so deeply and passionately that we inadvertently destroy anything that could possibly come next. We crown writers as royalty when really all they are is just a few normal chaps and chapettes who quite like writing stories.

           We are the voodoo doctors who inflicted such a terrible, terrible curse. And we are the only ones who can fix things. We have to stop ruining things for ourselves. I’m not saying don’t get so excited, I’m just saying, put it in perspective.  Realise that what you want may not be the same as what the writer imagines and try and accept that. And if it really is awful that doesn’t have to be the end - Re-write for yourself! Fanficiton is the ultimate way to both get excited over a series and get exactly what you want out of it! It’s fun too!

  

          And with that, I close my scientific case. The research has been done, the experiment carried out and the evaluation written. It’s time to take my lab-coat off and put up my feet. But next time you start a new dystopian series be careful. Only you can save us from the terrible, frightening, Three Book Curse.