"My first Freida McFadden! And while I wasn't as enamored with The Housemaid as most readers were, I did find it decently entertaining.

To start, I can totally see why people talk about this book as being bingeworthy. It has all the hallmarks of a one-sit read, with short chapters, lots of dialogue, and dramatic developments one after another so you can't look away. There's this perpetual feeling that you can read just one more page, and before you know it, you've read the whole book.

But that isn't to say this is the most original story ever. There were definitely moments as I was reading this that I had the strongest sense of déjà vu, as if I've read the same exact thing somewhere else before. The book cheerfully employs several common thriller elements, and while there is nothing wrong with that, it does make it feel like the story had no real surprises, especially if you've read a lot of thrillers like I have.

One thing I found interesting—and I'm not sure if this was done on purpose—was the humor. On the one hand, the story seemed extremely earnest throughout, with every character and every point of view being serious in the way that thrillers always are. But on the other hand, there were moments when everything was so over the top that it felt like the author must be leaning into it, having a bit of fun at the reader and the story, all in one go.

A lot of reviews mention the bad writing, and I feel like that's a little bit unfair. It isn't that the writing here is bad so much as it is very simplistic. Let me put it this way—my two-year-old was curious about what mama was reading, so I obliged by reading a random passage to him. And he was riveted. He wouldn't let me stop. He even chose this book as his bedtime story three nights in a row! His favorite parts were the discussions about things being clean/dirty, the stormy weather, and the scene with the garbage truck. So there you go, if my toddler can follow along just fine, I think that tells you something.

Was this story entertaining? Yes. But it also left me feeling vaguely unsatisfied, having fulfilled none of my reading cravings. It's the sort of story I was into while reading it, but as soon as I put it down, I had no real desire to pick it back up again. I didn't really care about the characters, I could see where the story was going from a mile away, and reading through it felt like spelling out in long form something I already knew.

The thing is, there is a marked difference between a book keeping your attention because you just happen to have it open versus one you would actively seek out to read. And unfortunately for me, this was too much the former and not enough of the latter.

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"If you're a fan of the book, please don't read this review. It's going to upset you, and you're going to hate me and leave mean comments, and then we can't be friends anymore. It'll be awkward all around. So yeah, best avoid.

Seriously, last chance to turn away.

Okay phew, now that I'm among like-minded readers (all three of us who didn't like this book), what the heck was this? Was Colleen Hoover blackmailed into putting her name on a book written by a hormonal teenager? Because I can't comprehend any other explanation for the hot mess that was this book.

Gosh, where to even start? How about with Tate and Miles, our main couple. So they meet and it's lust at first sight. But Miles can't do relationships because some unexplained thing has hurt him in the past. So now he can only have no-strings-attached sex. (Cue eye roll.) Of course, Tate can't say no to such an amazing offer, so she jumps right in. (Another eye roll.)

Sure, the premise is a bit wack, but not all hope is lost. The characters must at least be likable, right? Well, no. Miles doesn't talk or smile, which is mentioned at least once on every single page. In fact, he smiles so rarely that Tate composed a poem on the one occasion he did:

Miles smiles
For no one else
Miles only smiles
For me.

If you're wondering how anyone could possibly fall for a nonverbal, expressionless man-child, your guess is as good as mine.

Then we come to Tate, the world's biggest pushover, letting Miles walk all over her and treat her like a sex doormat. Yet she keeps going back for more, reeking of desperation and utterly devoid of self-respect. Lest you think this makes for an exciting story, I assure you there's a reason why silent/clingy has not taken off as a popular romance trope.

I want to plaster those four words on a billboard and require myself to pass it on my drive to work every day.

You'd think he promised her the moon and the stars, but no, he just said, "You look pretty, Tate." I kid you not.

We also have interweaved the story from Miles's younger years, the one that explains his pain. He and Rachel are young and in love, but things keep getting in their way. It definitely makes for very angsty (shudder) drama. But that isn't my biggest issue. My biggest problem is that it's written like this:

Rachel is happy.
I make Rachel happy.
I make Rachel's life better.
Her life is better with me in it.
"Rachel," I whisper.

Is this a joke? And here's another example:

We go to the beach.
Rachel wants to sunbathe while she reads.
I want to watch Rachel sunbathe while she reads.

In case you think I cherrypicked the most ludicrous examples, those are actually from the same page. In fact, every page written about Miles and Rachel reads like this. And it has the most ridiculous formatting, with line breaks galore, everything center-aligned, and random italics thrown in for emphasis.

Why is the writing so juvenile when Miles is supposedly 18 years old? Why is every scene between the two couples so cringeworthy? And why isn't this book called "Idiot Love" instead? I don't have any answers, just questions.

As I was reading this, I kept feeling like I was on some hidden camera show, and any moment, someone would jump out of the bushes and yell, "Gotcha!" Then they would hand me the real book written by Colleen Hoover, and we'd all have a good laugh over how thoroughly they got me. But sadly, that didn't happen.

I have a love/hate relationship with Colleen Hoover, and this one unfortunately falls squarely in the hate category. Since I've read most of her recent books, I thought I'd catch up on some of her older ones. But that was clearly the wrong decision. Maybe she's one of those authors who gets better and better as they go, and this is just too far back from her current style to resemble even a little of what I love about her writing.

And one last closing thought: if you're a young woman (or young man) reading this, and you think this is the way love is supposed to be, just no. You can have spark and sizzle and lust, and still be treated with kindness and respect. Don't ever let someone walk all over you and don't ever settle for less than you deserve. Tate should've kicked Miles to the curb a long time ago. If she had, this would've been a story worth reading.

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See also, my thoughts on:
It Ends with Us � It Starts with Us
Verity
Reminders of Him
Regretting You
Layla
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"Phew, I finally made it through this book! My apologies to everyone who loved this, but unfortunately, I did not, and no one's sadder than me.

Reading Where the Crawdads Sing was like stepping back in time to high school, when class-assigned books meant lots of award-winning fiction. Sure, there were plenty of literary merit found in these pages, but little joy was actually experienced from reading them.

Starting at the age of six, Kya was slowly abandoned by everyone in her family, until she was the sole person left living in a little shack at the edge of town. As the years went by, shunned by the entire town, she slowly became known as the "Marsh Girl," a wild and lonely creature that few knew and most feared. This is her story. And when the town's golden boy dies, old prejudices flair up, and Kya finds herself at the receiving end of the town's anger and suspicion.

This story is descriptive prose at its most verbose, and no detail—the marsh, waterways, bugs, trees, animals, and sea shells—was too small to be included. But the story has little plot and even less character development. Especially in the beginning, when Kya didn't talk to or interact with a single person, the monotony of the writing almost did me in.

The other big issue is that the story is pretty hard to believe. We're supposed to accept that Kya is able to fend for herself, which includes cooking, cleaning, going to the store, buying things, and coming up with ways to make money, all at the age of six. That is way beyond the realm of possibility, let alone probability. There's only so far my beliefs can be suspended, I tell you.

That's not to say I didn't enjoy a single thing here because I did. I found the middle of the book to be the most engaging. That was when Kya started interacting with others and the writing became a little bit more interesting as a result. Tate and Jumpin' were my favorite characters, and every scene they were in grabbed me. But the juxtaposition of their scenes (alive and compelling) against the ones without them (descriptive and unchanging) made the latter feel even more dull and plodding by comparison.

In the end, this book just isn't for me. Everything that others loved are all the same things I didn't. I prefer my books to have interesting plot advancement, nuanced character growth, and zippy writing, none of which this book had. Instead, the plot is straightforward, the characters all remain stubbornly the same throughout, and the writing is long-winded enough to deflate even the most enthusiastic of readers.

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"Well hello there, my new favorite series! Delighted to make your acquaintance!

But first, before we go on, a little confession. I'd like to think of myself as an equal opportunity book lover. Much as a parent would find it hard to name a favorite child, I would be similarly discomfited at having to point to a favorite genre. And yet, if you were to really press me, I would have to admit—but only after much hemming and hawing—that it's probably the murder mystery that has my heart. It was my first book love way back when, and even after all these decades, I could never really forget that feeling.

So anytime I crack open a mystery, I'm instantly a kid again, waiting for the intoxicating rush of sinking my teeth into the enigma of it all and being thoroughly swept away. But in order for it to really count, the story must first and foremost be a proper murder mystery. It must have clues, it must have red herrings, and it must have suspicious characters. And of course, at the helm of it all, it must have the all-important clever sleuth or two, there to uncover all the secrets.

And that's exactly what I got here. The Tainted Cup delivers all the goods on its murder mystery, and it does so while also seamlessly fleshing out a whole new fantasy universe. To say I'm impressed doesn't even begin to capture it. It's entirely possible that the kid in me fainted in excitement.

From the very first page, I could feel this story sink its claws into me. We are dropped into the thick of things immediately (there's a murder!), and it only gets better from there. There were so many layers to this compelling and confounding mystery, and I couldn't help but don my thinking cap and armchair detect the whole way through.

It's clear the characters take inspiration from Sherlock Holmes. And while that can be a bit of a hit or miss for me, I'm happy to report that I totally loved it here. Din and Ana both contain the quirkiness of their inspiration but none of their annoyances, and I found them endearing almost from the get-go.

The fantasy world here is a reader's dream, so imaginative and interesting yet so easy to slip into. At times, I almost forgot it's a completely different universe, so vividly was it painted. It's not easy to blend multiple genres together so effortlessly, and I'm always in awe when it happens. And while I wouldn't say you have to enjoy fantasy to read this book, you do have to be a fan of murder mysteries to really appreciate it.

Suffice to say, I am obsessed. It's not often a mystery completely captures me, and to hear that this is the first book of a series is the best news ever. I suspect I'll be gobbling up the next book posthaste.

P.S. The hardcover edition I got didn't come with a dust jacket. Instead, the cover was printed directly onto the book itself, and I'm so on board with that it's not even funny. I actually harbor a low-grade resentment for dust jackets. They're always getting crinkled and mangled while I'm reading and carrying them about, so I absolutely adore this naked book aesthetic.

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