a book review that isn't really about books

About two years ago I started reading a novel that reinforced the lesson of not judging a book by its cover. I picked it up at the store, lured by its deep red cover art, intriguing (and succinct) description… not to mention all the accolades on the back and inside the front cover. It was a vampire novel, the genre in which I was entrenched two years ago. And this one definitely lured me because it was not a teen fantasy or vapid romance. It promised more challenge to my intellect, more history and literary reference to delight my sense of trivia… and a concept that was a little different from all the others I was reading.

I finally started reading The Historian in the fall. I remember it because I was forced to take the train for a week and as it turned out being stuck on the train was good discipline to get myself involved in the story. But then I got my car back and the book sat on my bedside table, the coffee table, went in and out of my purse and … didn’t really compel me to lend it much devotion or thought.

It became one of those reading experiences that I ended up having to force upon myself. I liked the concept well enough, but the execution was just so not interesting. In theory it was a great idea, a modernization of Dracula, using the Cold War as a contrast to the violence and cold blooded nature of vampires. Interesting idea… but really the story was so wrapped up in the details of the history and the scene, even the terrifying moments were a yawn to me.

But I determined to finish it. I hate to throw a book aside (except for Anna Karenina because, blech). I made myself get to the end of that novel, even though it took me half a year. I figured there was something to learn. From a different take on vampire lore. From a book that supposedly was so amazing by a first time author that so many critics and readers had to express their adoration in two pages of praise. And eventually, from what not to do to make one’s reader lose interest and be perfectly okay with putting a book down and not coming back to it until three weeks later.

So I learned from reading that book. I did not enjoy it much. No. Not at all. But here I am, two years later, typing up my thoughts about it. Pondering what purpose that not so pleasant experience of sucking it up and getting through a painful artistic experience gave me. And I do talk about it, curious if a Dracula fan has read it. Even… sometimes suggesting they read it and give me an opinion. Of course, I did feel validated reading a number of online reviews that had similar painful experiences as me. That way I knew the problem with the book wasn’t just me.

But… to be honest… I really wouldn’t recommend anyone pay full price (if any) to read it. Nor would I suggest it if someone had anything better to do. I get that everyone sees art and the execution of it in different ways, with a different focus on what makes beauty… be it a close up or a big picture. And maybe there are a lot of people out there who like that book. Who think paying attention to detail not so important to the actual story is a good way to tell a story. They aren’t wrong. But… I find it tedious and a waste of time myself. And not an entertaining story.

I guess at the end of the day there are lessons learned even with the tedium. I think I did pretty well in the avoidance of that with my novel, as several readers have commented how swiftly they ate up my story. There are some that didn’t. But… they will learn as I learned from the novel I read that maybe next time I’ll just make a different choice of how to spend my time.