Tell Me a Story

SO good. Washed the bad book taste right out of my brain.

Believable characters, vivid & heartfelt emotion, great authorial voice - I am officially a Katie McGarry fangirl.

I couldn't put the book down. Really enjoyed the book and can't wait to read the author's other books in this series.

A paint by numbers New Adult book that lifts the Fifty Shades formula but fails miserably at anything resembling believable characters, motivation or emotion.

And what is UP with authors trying to pretend their characters are a certain nationality they know nothing about?! Raine Miller tried to pretend the hero of her book was British when it was blatantly obvious Ms. Miller has never set foot in Blighty (mini malls in Central London. I'm still snerking.)

Now Ms. Reed would have you believe her characters are American. But they talk about punters, weekend breaks, snogging, shagging, say "Cheers" for "Thanks," and the heroine's jaws drops to the floor when she sees the hero wearing only his navy blue CK pants.

Yeah, but an American jaw would NOT drop - because, my dear Ms. Reed, "pants" in American means "trousers" in British. "Briefs" in American = "pants" in British.

Let me demonstrate for you. This is what you meant:


But this is what you wrote:


Oh, word choice. Yes, it is matters, especially between continents.

While it was painfully obvious Ms. Miller never graced London with her presence, it is equally - and just as painfully - obvious that Ms. Reed never once visited New York City. A broke real estate assistant living in Brooklyn would not drive her own car to Manhattan. See, NYC has a pretty decent public transportation system, and a dearth of available (and affordable) parking spaces. The whole thing is too silly to be believed. As is calling NYU "NY University."

But all of the above are mere nitpicks compared to the very real problems with the story: namely, its plot and characters.

Jett (yes, that's his name) pretends to be someone he's not in order to meet Brooke. It's supposedly a business meeting, but it's set in a strip club and Brooke is already well into her second margarita before he shows up. So, yeah, they're both the epitome of believable young professionals. Then Jett comes onto her in a way that's both cheesy and sleazy - "I'd rather have Sex on the Beach," "Can't have your pretty little face getting wet" - yet Brooke thinks he's the sexiest thang with three legs.

No, Brooke, he's a douche and you're an idiot.

OF COURSE Jett turns out to be stalkeriffic - hey, you get fined by the New Adult Self Publishing Money Grab police if you don't make the hero a stalker - and Brooke is stunned to wake up next to his naked body the next morning, after a night out with her severely judgement-impaired best friend. Did something happen? He implies yes. Does Brooke wonder about birth control or STDs? Does she even stop to consider that since she didn't consciously consent to sex, this would constitute rape? Does he?

Oh please. No, this book is set in a mythical New York City inhabited by residents whose brains would be rejected by fleas as too small. Case in point two: Brooke goes to work only for her boss to tell her she's fired. Why? What did Brooke do? What is the cause?

Nope, no cause. See, a bigwig real estate honcho blackmailed Brooke's boss into firing her, because he wants to hire her instead.

This is so fucked up three thousands ways to Sunday that I can't even type.

And Brooke the nano-skulled goes along with it, showing up to her new job without asking: 1) What is my new position? 2) What are my new responsibilities? 3) What is my new salary? 4) What about benefits? - y'know, all the questions that anyone over the age of 12 would automatically demand to be answered.

But perhaps Brooke is more savvy than I give her credit, because she doesn't really need to know any of that. Her new boss is JETT!!!!!!!1!1! Betcha didn't see that one coming. And he's taking her to ITALY!!!!1!!!1!!!

Because that's how bigwig real estate honchos roll. They take brand new assistants to Italy for sensitive deals, and then after one platonic night in a hotel, they install them in their Lake Como villa.

Oh, and because this is taken direct from the 50 Shades formula book, here comes the sexual services contract, which is supposedly de rigueur for all corporate executives and Hollywood types (funny, I know the corporate Hollywood world fairly well, and yeah, but NO. But hey, we already established this is some mythical bizarro alternate universe.)

There's some sort of mystery with a neighboring estate and a twist that couldn't be more telegraphed if Western Union knocked on every reader's door.

And yet, this stuff apparently has an audience. Is it really just a hunger for the formula, which is nothing more than the old gothic romance (young, sweet girl meets wealthy man with secret past and hijinks ensue until he learns to let her in) with explicit - and often with the boundaries negotiated between the partners first - sex?

$2.99 for about one hundred pages. Yep, you guessed it, it's time for another round of "Let's Gouge the Reader!" I'm sorry, but I can get a professionally edited, professionally published romance for less than eight dollars. Why would I pay nine or more dollars for a series of sloppily written chapters? There's not even verification that the author finished the story before posting installments. What if she loses interest, or even more likely, inspiration? I'd be stuck with a bunch of chapters and no resolution.

If I want stories that have no promised end date, I'd go back to reading fan fiction. FOR FREE.

And what does my $2.99 get me?

Yet another self-pubbed author who can't be arsed to learn the proper way to use speech tags.

“Yes,” pointing ahead, huffing.

"Pointing ahead" is not a speech tag. One cannot speak with any part of the body that is also used to point (well, I suppose one could point with one's tongue - but not really.)

“Yeah,” I nod.

"Nod" is also not a speech tag. A nod is a non-verbal affirmative communication. Ipso facto, a nod is incapable of uttering the word "yeah."

“You want me to help?” he glances at the car and then back at me.

As anyone who graduated fourth grade with more than a C average can tell you, the proper way to punctuate that sentence is: "You want me to help?" He glances at the car and then back at me.

Or

"You want me to help?" he says, and glances at the car and then back at me.

And then there's the repeated:

“What else happened?” She asks

The power of capitalization is a curious thing. Makes one reader weep, makes another one sing. And I am WEEPING, people. WEEPING.

The set up is something we've seen a thousand times. Avery is super poor, y'all. So poor that her crappy car stalls at every stop light in New York City, yet somehow is still a target for multiple car jackings. Funny, in my city, it's the expensive cars that get stolen, but whatever. Let's pretend this is realistic. Like that a super poor college student would want or need a car in New York City in the first place.

OF COURSE when Avery's car is stolen, a totally hot and rich guy helps her. OF COURSE.

Later, Avery whines about having to work so hard and study so hard. She has a scholarship to college that requires her to keep a 3.5 GPA (most scholarship programs of which I am aware require only a 3.0. Just sayin'). She gives her, "As you know, Bob" speech to her gorgeous friend Melony, who is putting on sparkly earrings to go to work at a hotel late in the evening.

I'll give you three guesses what Melony does to make money, based on that description. And you'll have two left over.

Avery, of course, even though somehow she has earned a scholarship to college, has zero clue about Melony's work. No wonder she has to work so hard to maintain that 3.5. Making smart observations is not exactly in her wheelhouse.

And guess who Avery's first client is? Does he like to ride motorcyles and tell girls chasing after stolen cars that their car has been stolen? Toldja you wouldn't need the additional two guesses.

Then boom! "Story" is over, until the next gouge installment comes out.

If this is indicative of the quality the self-publishing revolution will bring us, then I think we're past the storming of the (New York publishing) Bastille and well into the Terror.

It has come to my attention that perhaps I was a bit hard on Hugh "I'm not a misogynist, some of my best friends have ovaries!" Howey. Thus, a friend lent me First Shift so I could review the book, not the author. After all, don't I know that Hugh Howey is one of the preeminent science fiction authors of our time, if not ALL TIME?!?!?

So let's review. In the year 2049, a neophyte Congressman from Georgia, Donald Keene (whose intellect is anything but), comes to Washington and does absolutely nothing with regards to politics or governing. Instead, he’s sucked into some sort of building project run under the aegis of a long time Senator from the same state. Donald is told the building project is a benign nuclear waste storage facility - aren't they always - and so he sits down, shuts up, and does what he is told even though warning bells would instantly ring for any normal person with two brain cells to rub together. Civics classes must have been outlawed from all Georgia high schools by 2049, because you'd think a CONGRESSMAN would be, like, dude, I don't think this is how a bicameral legislature in a democracy with three branches of government works.

But *wave hand*

Meanwhile, in the year 2110, a man named Troy is woken out of cryogenic sleep to begin his work shift in Silo One. Shifts last six months and then the worker is put back to sleep until it is time for his next shift. Whoever decided that forced turnover every six months is the most effective and efficient way to run any kind of organization deserves any and all fuck ups and piss poor morale that ensue. Just sayin'.

Oh, and THERE ARE NO WOMEN ALLOWED in this Silo, because they would distract men with "passion." The women and children are kept asleep until some undetermined future date. Because not only did the numbskulls who designed this future society decide that forced turnover ever six months was a viable way to go, they also decided that women hold zero value as contributors to society as thinking, rational human beings. No, the mere presence of their vaginas would somehow poison the men with uncontrollable desire.

This. Is. Just. Wrong. First, it presumes men have zero control of their impulses and emotions and cannot help themselves. It's the basic assumption underlying rape culture: hey, it's not my fault I raped her, it's her fault for wearing that short skirt and see-through shirt. AND IT IS PUTRID.

Second: "Passion" is not just restricted to two people of opposite gender. Hate to break it to the brainiacs who devised this society, but if the thought was to prevent all emotional and sexual relationships by removing women - shyeah, right.

Third: WTF?!? Women can't contribute to this society? Women aren't capable of being doctors, psychologists, systems analysts, etc?! Their only value is to serve as emotional blackmail to the men woken out of sleep, and I'm guessing as potential breeders/mothering units for the new utopia yet to come?!

Back in 2049, Donald is forced to work with Anna, his old girlfriend and the daughter of the patron/patronizing Senator. Anna has a magical hoo-ha, y’all. That’s the only explanation for why Donald is PETRIFIED of being within twenty feet of Anna’s apparently magnetic vagina. PETRIFIED. The mere sight of Anna covered in dust bunnies after installing Donald's new desktop computer is enough to make Little Donald want to come out to play. But Donald holds firm (no pun intended). He will be faithful to his wife Helen. Even though Anna does absolutely nothing that suggests any kind of sexual innuendo and her evil seductive temptress ways appear completely made up in Donald's head.

In fact, Donald reminds me a lot of Brandon Hantz, a two-time “Survivor” contestant. Brandon’s story is a very sad one, and I feel bad bringing him up. But Donald’s reaction to Anna is precisely Brandon’s reaction to the young, pretty female contestants on “Survivor:” because these two men find the women sexually attractive, the women must be evil harlots with no other purpose in life than to steal the virtuous young men away from their wives.

Brandon ended up having a spectacular breakdown on camera his second time on the show. Donald, I’m afraid, presents about just as stable. And sorry, Donald, but honestly? You’re no prize. You have the intellectual curiosity of a kumquat, for starters. And Anna, even as thinly as she is written, could do WAY better. If she even wanted to. Not every woman wants or needs a man to feel complete, Howey.

Flash forward to 2110: Troy spends his time moping. Emo doesn't even begin to cover it. While I admire books that aren't afraid to show male characters crying, no one needs a watering can as the viewpoint character. Troy stops taking his blue pills (or are they red?) and memories of another time start to come back. Memories of a time that seem a lot like...

...2052. Donald apparently handily won re-election even though he spent all his time working on architectural plans instead of, y'know, Congressional stuff. It seems Donald didn’t show up to class the day where it was explained Representatives are elected every two years and therefore need to campaign. Donald visits the nuclear waste site where the sitting governor from Oklahoma shows up to personally hand him a clipboard so Donald can sign for supplies. Apparently governing Oklahoma is even less onerous than being a Congressman and leaves one with nothing better to do than play deliveryman in a state thousands of miles away. But what is the TRUE purpose of the nuclear waste storage site? Let's flash forward to...

...2110. OMIGAWD TROY IS DONALD!!! MY SISTER MY DAUGHTER MY SISTER MY DAUGHTER! MIND, LIKE, TOTALLY BLOWN!

Only kidding. Oh, not about the spoiler - unfortunately, that's true enough - but about the supposed genius of the twist. Didn't I see this in a Twilight Zone episode?

Meanwhile, the true purpose of the nuclear waste storage silos is revealed. They're storage all right...FOR PEOPLE!!!!

See, the Democrats - which makes me laugh, because the Democrats are the party that can't seem to organize the opening of a paper bag, yet Howey credits them with organizing the end of the world - are holding their national convention in Atlanta. And for some reason everyone thought it would be a brilliant idea to hold an event at the facility. "Yay!!! Let's have a big party on top of the world's nuclear waste! Woo Hoo!" Because politicians LOVE reminding their constituents about controversial topics such as nuclear energy in an election year, at a high profile, highly televised election event.

But y'see, there are these nano-thingees, invisible to the eye. The nanos enter the bloodstream through inhalation. They're tiny little nanobots, designed to cure cellular breakdown. But the Axis of Evil ™ has weaponized nanos, y’all. They’re not Weapons of Mass Destruction ™ but Weapons of Micro Destruction.

So to avoid a long, drawn out battle between the good nanos and the bad nanos, with hundreds of thousands dying, the perpetrators decide to take out the entire world (or at least Atlanta) by setting off nukes. The conventioneers are herded into the 50 storage silos, which are actually self-contained ecosystems designed to sustain human life. Forty-nine of the silos start brand new societies, with farms and a stratified class system based on one's occupation and one's level of residence (up is good, down is bad.) One silo - the one containing Donald/Troy - relies on cryo-frozen "legacy" workers, instead of letting people propagate and die. This silo is also the only one that knows there are multiple silos, and it vets all the "heads" of the other silos. The heads are not politicians; they come out of (the all-male) IT, for some reason, even though computing doesn't seem needed or even much called for.

And Troy/Donald remembers, even though the drugs are supposed to make him forget. Donald and Helen were supposed to meet at the Tennessee Silo, but a last minute switch with his best friend, fellow nuclear waste container contractor and Congressman Mick (because Congressmen are always best buddies and qualified to build nuclear waste facilities, of course) sent Donald to the Georgia Silo with Donald's sister Charlotte and the harlot Anna.

But the remembering might be his biggest problem. For THEY (there's always a THEY in stories like these) know he remembers. And Donald is put back to sleep.

Of course not for good, there's like a bajillion more parts to this story.



Fun Facts We Learn About the Future #1: All Georgian congressmen must kiss the ring of a Georgian Senator named Thurman (whose resemblance to Strom Thurmond, party affiliation aside, is uncanny.) The Congressmen must do whatever the Senator says. Apparently his real first name is "Simon."

Fun Fact #2: In the year 2049 (I keep hearing it sung like this) Congressmen do not need to meet with constituents, other government officials, or even lobbyists. Nor do they need to campaign for re-election. No, Congressmen spend all their time working on architectural drawings, even when they aren't licensed architects and haven't practiced professionally.

Fun Fact #3: I keep using the word Congressmen, because Future!Washington is even more sexist (and also more racist, since no people of color show up anywhere) than today. Howey writes, "There was a sense in the air that the world was about to change - a woman was about to win nomination for president, only the second such nomination in Donald's lifetime. And if the pollsters could be believed, this one had more than a chance." Since Donald is described as mid-thirties, that makes him born around 2014. So, sorry Hilary. Sorry Sarah. Sorry Condi or whoever might be in the wings. Save the expense now and don't run: Hugh Howey says no girls allowed in the Oval Office. Nuh uh.

Oh, there are women in this book, but they are either the receptionist; the secretary; the wife with no other apparent life except to wait by the phone and/or walk the dog; or the (dum dum DUM) evil temptress ex-girlfriend who does nothing tempting except to deliver a computer and have a meal. Howey does include Donald's sister Charlotte, an Air Force officer who pilots drones in some ongoing conflict with the usual Axis of Evil ™ suspects (c'mon, doesn't a new country get to join the Axis in the next forty years? Is it like the Bad Guy Club for Villains, and they aren't accepting new members?) but when Charlotte learns they want her to appear on stage with Senator Thurmondan and other members of the armed services, Howey has her say, "Oh God. And I'm the girl." So obviously, the idea that the other service members might be female is unthinkable.

Fun Fact #4: Congressmen from Georgia are so smart, they only just discover in 2049 that the CDC has a website devoted to surviving the zombie apocalypse. Quick on the uptake, politicians of the future.

Fun Fact #5: Technology has progressed to the point where nanos are used in medicine to repair cellular structures. On the other hand, people still use desktop computers, cell phones, computer mice, pens, paper, clipboards, etc. Not even a tablet device in sight. The march of progress led by companies such as Apple and Google appears to have been halted and reversed. Perhaps Silicon Valley was the Axis of Terror's™ first target. Still, I find it hard to believe that 2049 will be more like 2003 than 2013 when it comes to office technology.

We'll still be buying bestselling books in paper, however, so that's all right. I bet Simon & Schuster and Random House are happy to know their investment will continue to pay out.

Two stars for the belly laughs.

But if you are looking for a book to convince people that Howey is just woefully misunderstood when it comes to claims of sexism: this isn't the place to start.

Quick. Name a sitcom director.

I'm waiting.

OK, time's up.

I worked in television, and I can barely name sitcom directors. James Burrows, he's about the only sitcom director who has anything close to a star name, and that's because he's been around since Cheers.

I'm 4% into the book and here are the glaring mistakes in the book:

1) Golden Globes aren't given out for directing. Emmys are. A Golden Globe win (to Hollywood insiders) just means you gave the Hollywood Foreign Press some really good swag.

2) The production assistant role has gone vacant for months? For realz?! Sorry, actual sitcoms would have several PAs.

3) They hire a first year film student as a PA?! Intern, maybe. PA, no. way.

Why do I read Hollywood books? Why? The LOLs aren't worth the rage they induce.

Snappy and fast-paced. Great dialogue. The spin on marriage of convenience (she needs a divorce, not a husband, but to get a divorce one must get married first) is fresh (to me, at least. Although the dreaded trust fund does make an appearance. Srsly, where are all those lawyers who will draw up such a cockamamie trust?) Cia is Hispanic (although she appears to be of Spanish descent, not Mexican or otherwise Latin American) which adds a nice note of diversity. Lucas has an annoying habit of calling women "darlin'" (note: it's not) which I guess marks him as a Texan and only makes me happy to be a Californian. But other than that, Lucas is a very appealing hero and I love his wedding present to Cia.

The emotional beats feel authentic, and the chemistry between the characters burns up the pages.

Well done!

Dog trainer Heather Linsey distrusts men because her father repeatedly cheated on her mother (they are still married, though) which caused the teenage Heather to cut herself. Love is a lie, Heather decided, and she wants no part of it.

Zach Sullivan is an automotive genius who restores vintage cars, races other cars, and owns a lucrative chain of auto repair shops. Zach is a middle child in the large and prolific Sullivan family, all of whom apparently are interesting enough to have their own book, but he is the one son who most resembles the late, beloved father who tragically dropped dead of an aneurysm when Zach was seven. Zach even gets headaches like his father. So Zach decided that he, too, will probably drop dead early and therefore has resolved to never form a lasting relationship because of the pain his passing would inflict on his survivors.

Two weeks later, these two are declaring "I love yous." (Oh, c'mon, it's a romance novel. If you think that's a spoiler, then why are you reading reviews of romance novels when you obviously know nothing of the genre?)

And thus my problem with the book. For all the belly-aching the hero and heroine engage in regarding their resistance to love, they get over it really quick. The emotional obstacles are leapt over with a single desultory hop. Heather's cheating father is dealt with in one quick scene; Zach acts like a spoiled brat and is oh so surprised when Heather reacts badly to his behavior, but his mother straightens him out with one short conversation and voila! Happy ever after.

I just couldn't make myself care. Nor did I think the San Francisco setting was used to its full advantage; this book could be set in Any Town, USA, and indeed, it felt waaaay more like a small town romance than set in one of the US's most distinctive urban centers.

The dogs were cute, however. And I liked the glimpses I got of Zach's family. Maybe I started the series with the wrong Sullivan.

Perfectly adequate, but not a keeper. If this had been a paper book, it would be on top of the pile of books to donate.

Winner of the 2012 RITA for Best Contemporary Romance.

Which really makes me curious about the health of the contemporary romance genre.

Not that this is a bad book. Far from it. It's charming and fun. I might've even had a tear or two in my eye at the big confrontation scene. Matilda is a terrific heroine, full of chutzpah and wit. As a former expat myself, I enjoyed Matilda's cultural confusion. Marc is appealing and very sexy. The small Wisconsin town setting is beautifully drawn, and the secondary romance is sweet and full of heartfelt emotion.

But the writing was interrupted by huge chunks of expository telling that made my eyes glaze over, and Matilda called Marc "Blondie" or referred to him as "Viking" when it is was in her POV waaaaay too many times for me to keep my eyes from rolling. Marc comes to his realization about Matilda in a rushed, bolt-of-lightning way, as if the author realized this was a romance so hey, time to wrap it up. And the overly sugary epilogue wiped the tears from my eyes and practically sent me into a diabetic coma.

So a really fun book, definitely deserving of four stars, but best in show? Hence my curiously about the health of the genre. Or maybe the more established contemporary romance authors didn't feel the need to enter their books in the RITAs.

EDITING TO ADD: If you are here to tell me that Moron was just being "funny" or "ironic" or any other word meant to belittle my take on Moron's interview and thus insinuate that I just don't get it and I am pearl clutching:

GET THE FUCK OFF MY GOODREADS REVIEW. And go drip your Moron apologia somewhere else. I lived in the UK, I understand Moron's "humour" quite well, and I still think she's a fuckwit poor ass excuse for a female. As are her attack fans. So buh-bye and better luck proselytizing on someone else's review. Your comments will be deleted.


RAGEY RAGEY EYEBALL STABBY.

Moran can go screw herself. And return all those distasteful US dollars to the poor backward American women who bought her self-aggrandizing BS.

http://www.mamamia.com.au/social/mia-freedman-interviews-caitlin-moran/

M: How was promoting your book in the US? Did they understand How to be a Woman?

C: It was tricky because many of the programs that you would go on, or interviews that you do, someone would take you aside and say “Well we’re kinda not allowed to say the word ‘vagina’ in America at the moment.”

M: Jesus.

C: It’s weird there. And you’d realise… like in the same way that we don’t have policemen with guns in the UK and then you go to America and the policemen have guns. And often you can be in a state where there’s the death penalty and…

M: Not for saying vagina, surely.

C: Yep! They kill you for saying vagina [laughs]. And then in the same way that you know, here (in Britain) we have contraception and abortion and then you go there (the US) and there are people that genuinely believe in Heaven and Hell and Satan and there are states where all sex is illegal and they’re trying to take back the right to abortion or the right to contraception.

And it’s a lot scarier, it’s like going back in the past or something. It’s like travelling two hundred, a hundred years back and I feel quite vulnerable as a woman there because there are things that you can just toss off in a conversation here that people take for granted but you have to take people step-by-step through it in America in terms of feminism.

M: Like the fact that you’ve written about your abortion and things like that: you just can’t just go on The View and chat about that, can you.

C: It’s got to the point now where when I’m doing interviews with people, and I know they’re about to talk about abortion, because they do this sort of sympathetic head and they go “of course you wrote very meaningfully about your abortion” and I always have to stop myself laughing when they do it. Not that I’m laughing at abortion, it’s just because that’s what everyone feels they have to do when we talk about it.

So yeah, it was weird going there and having to basically justify feminism again in a way I never had to in this country or in any other places. Italy seems to be troubled as well, judging from the interviews that I’ve done. You get female interviewers who really need you, who are desperate for you to take them through, step-by-step, through why women should be equal to men, and why access to abortion should be a right. They need you to do that because that conversation has still not happened there. Women still haven’t been proven equal to men in Italy as far as I’m aware.

M: There was a very tragic case in Melbourne recently, about an Irish girl who was walking home from a bar, and who was married and lived 800 metres from a bar, and was walking home and was just randomly abducted and raped and murdered. And it’s really been one of those watershed moments for the whole country.

There have been peace marches, and reclaim the night marches, because it is that thing that we all fear, a woman walking alone, randomly taken from the streets, and it’s really divided a lot of women. Because there have been those who have said, “don’t blame the victim, we need to be free to walk the streets at any time, it’s men who need to be taught not to rape and murder.”

And of course it should never be about victim blaming but I worry about the idea of saying to women “don’t change your behaviour, this is not your problem!”. I feel like that’s saying, ”You should be able to leave your car unlocked with the keys in the ignition, or leave your front door unlocked, and expect nobody to burgle you.”

C: Yes. It’s on that basis that I don’t wear high heels – other than I can’t walk in them – because when I’m lying in bed at night with my husband, I know there’s a woman coming who I could rape and murder, because I can hear her coming up the street in high heels, clack-clack -clack. And I can hear she’s on her own, I can hear what speed she’s coming at, I could plan where to stand to grab her or an ambush. And every time I hear her I think, “Fuck, you’re just alerting every fucking nutter to where you are now. And [that it’s a concern] that’s not right.

Society should be different. But while we’re waiting for society to change, there’s just certain things you have to do. But again the thing is, so many things you could do instead are predicated on having money. She could come out of a nightclub and get into a taxi, that would be the right thing to do.

No billionaire heiresses are ever abducted and raped and murdered, because they are just being put into a taxi or have their driver waiting around a corner for them.

Oh, Caitlin, you ignorant prat, you.

First, Patty Hearst is an heiress who was abducted and raped and forced to commit armed robbery, so go learn some history and stop talking out of your lower back orifice.

Second, I lived in the UK. British women are no more and no less liberated than American women. Period. In fact, since the UK is the proud home of Katie Price/Jordan, and turned Jade Goody into a posthumous saint, and worships at the feet of WAGs (wives and girlfriends of football/soccer stars,) and, worst of all, thinks that Victoria Beckham is actually relevant (we kicked her ass to the curb in the States and made her run back to Europe): I rest my case.

"States were all sex is outlawed"?!?!? Oh Moran, you xenophobic moron.

"Policemen don't have guns in the UK" Oh, so those armed men standing outside New Scotland Yard that I passed every day on my way to Tube were holding toy assault rifles?

"They kill you for saying vagina" Oh, poor Eve Ensler! Has her family been informed of her demise?

Oh, and let's not start with Moron's - I mean, Moran's victim blaming. I know far too many rape and assault victims who were attacked while wearing flat soled shoes; who were attacked in their beds; who were attacked while running in broad daylight in a "safe" neighborhood. I myself was surrounded by a group of drunk Champagne Charlies who tried to scare and intimidate me at 8 o'clock in the morning on Charing Cross Road; I wore rubber-soled shoes, a bulky leather coat and no make-up. (Funny, the only time I've been scared for my person has been in London, despite living in several US cities with worse reputations.)

But no, according to Moran, the only women who get raped are those who "deserve" it by dressing and acting a certain way.

In other words, ragey, ragey eyeball stabby. If Moran had an ethical bone in her body (which I doubt) she would donate every pence of her royalties to rape helplines and battered women shelters, to counteract just an ounce of the BS she peddles.

No one writes witty repartee and charming characters the way Julia Quinn can.

And for that, I'm prepared to overlook the woeful historical accuracy (there ain't none. I can't even tell in what year this is supposed to be set. Sometime before the invention of the car is all I know.) Or the ridiculous absence of social and class boundaries (an Earl to marry a governess of dubious virtue and no one gives a fig? Yeah, but no.) Or the over-the-top villan, who was just missing a mustache to twirl.

Yeah, fun dialogue and characters (I loved the three young girls) go a long way with me, and will compensate for all kinds of ills in my book.

Dear authors,

If you absolutely MUST set a book in London, then for the love of everything that is holy at least visit the city. Or find a beta reader who is a Londoner.

Because I'm barely into the book and:
1) The heroine remarks with surprise that the London streets are crowded for a weeknight. Dear Raine, London streets are ALWAYS crowded. I have the bruises to prove it.

2) The hero buys the heroine Advil. Advil is not sold in the UK. (Editing to add: Before you feel the need to tell me I am wrong about the name of the drug, the sentence is: "He shoved a bottle of water into my hand and opened up a single packet of ADVIL." Loc. 154 on my Kindle. The original self-pubbed version of the book.)

3) The hero buys the heroine a Power Bar. But sports nutrition bars are nowhere near as ubiquitous in the UK as they are in the US.

4) The hero pulls into strip mall (!!!!) to buy the above items. No. No. NO. London is NOT Southern California, Raine, dear. In fact, I don't think there is a strip mall in the whole of the British Isles.

5) The hero drives a Range Rover. In London. This supposedly marks him as wealthy and sophisticated. Instead, it makes him stupid (the price of petrol in the UK is more than double the price of gas in the US) and for a security guy, not able to traverse very many London streets (they weren't exactly originally built for cars, much less Range Rovers.) Not to mention the problem of where to park it while out and about! Car parks are few and far between, and available street parking even more rare.

While some in London do drive SUVs, the vehicles are known as "Chelsea Tractors" and it's usually a trophy wife making a school run behind the wheel. Otherwise, the Rovers stay at the country house. Wealthy men in London drive sleek European sports cars or, more likely, they have a town car and driver.

Problematic setting aside, the writing is decent if badly in need of a good pruning by an editor. Spelling and grammar are, for the most part, acceptable. But the characters already grate.

Brynne appears to be TSTL. She accepts a ride home from a stranger, takes the pills he offers her, then falls asleep in his car. When she wakes up she freaks out - but it's not because gee, a stranger fed her pills and she passed out which YES IS CAUSE FOR ALARM. No, instead Brynne is freaked out because of some DEEP and MYSTERIOUS cause she can't think about. And then, of course, she wants to take off her clothes and roll around with the man she JUST MET despite freaking out in his car.

Brynne later castigates herself for being stupid. Gee, ya think? :rolleyes But that self-awareness comes too late to save her for me.

Ethan isn't much better; there's no way he's British, for one. Second, he's a friend of her father, yet he repays that friendship by buying nude portraits of his daughter. Then later, he acts surprised when he learns Brynne is American - but, dude, you know her father and it's implied the father is an American politician so, um...

Cannot read further. I have a low tolerance for festivals of stupidity.

I loved, loved, LOVED this book...

...up to the 80% mark. And then it became exposition city, with a forced black moment and resolution.

But up to that point?

Love, love, LOVE.

A really sweet but very sexy romance between a broken divorcee and the man who doesn't want to fix her, but just be with her.

Reading a Meg Cabot book is like sinking into a good bubble bath: cozy, bubbly, frothy, iridescent. It doesn't last long and doesn't leave you with much aside from a warm feeling and a general sense of well-being, but you really enjoyed your time immersed in the sudsy goodness.

(Unless you're reading Meg's Abandon series. In which case, not so much. But that's a review for another time.)

A perfectly sweet - in every sense of the word - romance that is no way believable, but very readable and cute. The setup is preposterous: a failing British production company has the chance to win a commission for a documentary series on "the romance industry" (whatever that is), but only if they get sexy economist Simon Valentine to present it. Because when you think romance you think prime derivatives and interest rates.

Not only that, but the company puts an assistant, Clara, in charge of bagging Simon. Not the producer, not the head of the company, but the assistant. Sorry, not in any real world of which I am aware.

Still, Clara is kooky adorable with her musical theatre obsession, and the reader roots for her. Simon is less successful as a character - he's your typical stick up the butt stuffed shirt who disdains the kooky, but of course succumbs to its charm - but you have to love a book that manages to squeeze scenes set in London, Paris, a tropical island in the Indian Ocean, and a snowbound cottage in the Scottish highlands into its slim page count.

A mindless quick read. And for anyone embarrassed by explicit description, Fifty Shades this ain't. The curtain is discreetly drawn.

SOMETHING BLUE and SOMETHING BORROWED are on my keeper shelf.

I loved how Giffin created not-so-perfect characters who engage in less than optimum behavior, and yet she still made me care deeply about what happened to them.

However, I became less and less enchanted with her work with each subsequent book. I went from auto-buying the hardback, to waiting for the paperback, to putting the newest book on hold at the library, to maybe checking the book out from the library, maybe not. HEART OF THE MATTER worked my last nerve: the character were passive, the plot non-existent, the writing melodramatic and the emotion manufactured.

Where We Belong is just yet another slide down the scale from the heights of SOMETHING BLUE. So my relationship with Giffin is now over for good. Hey girl, it's not me, it's you.

There are many self-pubbed books that deserve to be entitled "Mess."

This is NOT one of them.

A very cute short novella about a twenty-something Brit who lives - platonically - with her two best male friends from university. Bailey is a wedding cake designer who just got dumped by her boyfriend. One roommate, Tom, is what appears to be the British equivalent of a medical resident, while the other, Olly, is a fledging YouTube celebrity along with his partner-in-crime Linc.

The plot is thin: Bailey is heartbroken over the break-up, the boys collectively try to cheer her up, Bailey learns that true love might have been under her nose all this time. Where the book shines is in its characters and dialogue. Each boy has his own voice (although Tom and Olly are incredibly blokey) and they are all very funny in a frat boy, young male way. Bailey could come off as a dripping sodden mess, and she has her "woe is me" moments, but for the most part I was happy to follow her journey, short and lacking true conflict though it may be.

Author Lucy Morgan has a sharp, witty voice and it's fun to watch Bailey discover her homegrown Prince Charming. I look forward to more books in this series!