On my first blind date with a book I read 68 pages of Erica Ferencik's Into the Jungle before I threw in the towel. It took me four tries to get that far along in the story, and was probably 67 pages more than I should have read, but I wanted to give the story a chance.
Things I liked about this blind date: not a single thing.
Things I disliked about this blind date: Everything. I'm not kidding, everything. From the cover art with its blinding yellow accents (I should have taken that as a Do Not Enter warning) to the over-wrought, thesaurusitis writing and a collection of characters so juvenile, unrealistic and (admittedly, artfully) repulsive I had zero sympathy for all of them. This book is a steaming pile of crap dressed up like a story -- and yes, I would say that to the author's face. My overriding thought every time I turned a page was Can I stop now? Please?
I know I should not feel this way; the novel got a starred review from Publishers Weekly, too. Oh, well. Now I understand why their reviewers always hated my books.
I've only asked people not to read a book once in the past; China Nieville's Perdido Street Station did so much harm to my brain I almost gave up writing. After 68 pages of this, I have to ask again. Please don't read this book.
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