This book was, for the most part, excruciating. Claudia Dain's "A Night at the Theater" was its saving grace—a little gem of a tale that single-handedly vindicated my efforts.
A neutral place. The chances of finding one these days are slim, maybe even slimmer than Archie’s pinball trick. The sheer quantity of shit that must be wiped off the slate if we are to start again as new. Race. Land. Ownership. Faith. Theft. Blood. And more blood. And more. And not only must the place be neutral, but the messenger who takes you to the place, and the messenger who sends the messenger. There are no people or places like that left...
Plot potential quickly dissolved as a result of poor construction—the narrative was dull, the characters underdeveloped, and the resolution perfunctory.
I caught up with Richelle at her book signing in Burlington, Massachusetts. I purchased the book. She personalized it. And now I am going to dig my grubby hands into its eagerly awaiting pages.
Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.
It occurs to me that we crush insects beneath our feet, miracles of creation too, beetles, worms, cockroaches, ants, in their various ways.