Cecelia Ahern’s The Book Of Tomorrow
Where I stopped: Page 151
Having read (and enjoyed) Cecelia Ahern’s Where Rainbows End years ago, I was looking forward to reading this story of a spoiled teen’s conversion to a quieter life after her father’s death. Not long after arriving with her grief-stricken mother to her aunt and uncle’s house in the Irish countryside, Tamara discovers a journal written in her own handwriting — and detailing the events of the following day. Day after day. Shocked out of her mind when her diary’s “predictions” begin to come true, Tamara struggles to find out why she’s been given this new glimpse at life . . . and what to do with it.
The premise sounded great — and Ahern is such a popular author. That being said, I made it about halfway through this one before realizing I couldn’t care less about any of the characters and felt like the book was one giant circle . . . we kept repeating the same plot points over and over. Once I realize I have no emotional investment in a novel, the book is killed for me. And this one? Abandoned.
Lorelle Marinello’s Salting Roses
Where I stopped: Page 56
Sucked in by the gorgeous cover, I opened this one with a hopeful bubble rising in my chest. Gracie is a Southern belle abandoned at birth who, on her twenty-fifth birthday, discovers she’s actually the kidnapped daughter of a wealthy Yankee — and, considering her biological father’s recent passing, there’s $650 million with her name on it. A P.I. arrives in small town Shady Grove, Ala., to break the news, and from there it’s a whirlwind of scheming relatives, tabloid journalists and chaos.
Another novel that couldn’t grab me. Gracie seems like a hopelessly naive young woman who initially turns down her inheritance, fearing that money ruins people, but Marinello’s plot meandered along and confused me. I spent the first 30 pages trying to figure out who all these people were and what their connection was to Gracie — which just frustrates me. If the book had been written from Gracie’s actual perspective — in her own, unique voice — I might have latched on better. As it stands, the third-person omniscient point of view left me feeling detached.