Wulf C. Krueger
Sincerely, Carter
Oh, wow, this was ridiculously bad.
Carter and Arizona have been friends since fourth grade. They are the closest of platonic friends - until they, as is most convenient for the plot, both suddenly at the same time realise how insanely hot they are for each other.
With all the language skills of a teenager and the sensitivity of a butcher, Whitney G. spins a tale as coherent as a fever dream and as inventive as a rerun (this novel contains not a single original thought).
Arizona sneaks routinely into paid cooking lessons, and, in doing so, manages to get a full scholarship at “the second best culinary school in the world” in France and plans to move there. The remaining two weeks until her departure, she spends nearly every waking moment and every night with Carter. He, in turn, is so great between the sheets, he sexually awakens her, and Whitney G. writes smut like this:
»“Oh… Oh...Oh god…”. I felt him [...]. “Ahhh… Ahhh…”«
And that’s just the very obvious tip of the proverbial iceberg of bad, weird writing throughout the entire novel. In my reading experience, G.’s authorial eloquence is pretty much at rock bottom. It’s so bad that she used to self-publish under what is probably her real name, Whitney Gracia Williams. In Germany, the media must shorten the names of criminal suspects. That G. does it herself seems perfectly fitting.
Just before leaving for the airport, Arizona finally expresses her feelings for Carter to him in plain words. Carter, who wants to become a hotshot lawyer, has the amazing idea to respond by pushing her firmly away (“I don’t love you like that and it was just sex for me.”). He does it because he is obviously convinced Arizona needs to be protected from herself…
(Which she will actually confirm to be true later on.)
To top off this male chauvinist crap, Carter is obviously as smart as a paramecium when he tells Arizona the following near the end of the reader’s torture:
»If I knew that what I said would make you give me the cold shoulder or stop talking to me, I can promise you that I never would’ve done it and I would take it back in a heartbeat.«
Arizona moves to France, becomes the ultimate cooking princess there, befriends characters as flat as cardboard cutouts (which every person in this novel is), and eventually returns home with a boyfriend to whose presence Carter predictably reacts like an enraged gorilla. He first pounds his chest until Arizona caves and finally lets him pound her again.
Much to my dismay, the author also seems to face semantic or memory challenges:
»Panting and trembling, I shut my eyes—not answering any of his questions that he peppered with forehead kisses.«
In this scene, Carter didn’t ask a single question…
There’s also this gem of a scene in which Arizona confesses her feelings for Carter to her mother:
»”I asked him if he had feelings that were more than friend-like, if he felt like there was something more than sex between us, and he said no.”
“You asked him that in person?”
“No. It was in a text message. Same thing.”«
The thing is: She actually did ask him in person before leaving for the airport. It’s bad when an author doesn’t even remember what they wrote before…
As if all of that wasn’t bad enough in itself, the pace is that of a snail on tranquilisers. Thankfully, I read this mostly at night, so the way this steaming turd wore me out helped me find my way to bed. Since the novel was also as emotionally moving as reading IKEA instructions, it numbed my mind sufficiently to sleep at any moment.
Stay well away from this, my friends! Don’t be a non-DNFing Wulf!
One star out of five.
Ceterum censeo Putin esse delendam
Originally posted at turing.mailstation.de.
Oh, wow, this was ridiculously bad.
Carter and Arizona have been friends since fourth grade. They are the closest of platonic friends - until they, as is most convenient for the plot, both suddenly at the same time realise how insanely hot they are for each other.
With all the language skills of a teenager and the sensitivity of a butcher, Whitney G. spins a tale as coherent as a fever dream and as inventive as a rerun (this novel contains not a single original thought).
Arizona sneaks routinely into paid cooking lessons, and, in doing so, manages to get a full scholarship at “the second best culinary school in the world” in France and plans to move there. The remaining two weeks until her departure, she spends nearly every waking moment and every night with Carter. He, in turn, is so great between the sheets, he sexually awakens her, and Whitney G. writes smut like this:
»“Oh… Oh...Oh god…”. I felt him [...]. “Ahhh… Ahhh…”«
And that’s just the very obvious tip of the proverbial iceberg of bad, weird writing throughout the entire novel. In my reading experience, G.’s authorial eloquence is pretty much at rock bottom. It’s so bad that she used to self-publish under what is probably her real name, Whitney Gracia Williams. In Germany, the media must shorten the names of criminal suspects. That G. does it herself seems perfectly fitting.
Just before leaving for the airport, Arizona finally expresses her feelings for Carter to him in plain words. Carter, who wants to become a hotshot lawyer, has the amazing idea to respond by pushing her firmly away (“I don’t love you like that and it was just sex for me.”). He does it because he is obviously convinced Arizona needs to be protected from herself…
(Which she will actually confirm to be true later on.)
To top off this male chauvinist crap, Carter is obviously as smart as a paramecium when he tells Arizona the following near the end of the reader’s torture:
»If I knew that what I said would make you give me the cold shoulder or stop talking to me, I can promise you that I never would’ve done it and I would take it back in a heartbeat.«
Arizona moves to France, becomes the ultimate cooking princess there, befriends characters as flat as cardboard cutouts (which every person in this novel is), and eventually returns home with a boyfriend to whose presence Carter predictably reacts like an enraged gorilla. He first pounds his chest until Arizona caves and finally lets him pound her again.
Much to my dismay, the author also seems to face semantic or memory challenges:
»Panting and trembling, I shut my eyes—not answering any of his questions that he peppered with forehead kisses.«
In this scene, Carter didn’t ask a single question…
There’s also this gem of a scene in which Arizona confesses her feelings for Carter to her mother:
»”I asked him if he had feelings that were more than friend-like, if he felt like there was something more than sex between us, and he said no.”
“You asked him that in person?”
“No. It was in a text message. Same thing.”«
The thing is: She actually did ask him in person before leaving for the airport. It’s bad when an author doesn’t even remember what they wrote before…
As if all of that wasn’t bad enough in itself, the pace is that of a snail on tranquilisers. Thankfully, I read this mostly at night, so the way this steaming turd wore me out helped me find my way to bed. Since the novel was also as emotionally moving as reading IKEA instructions, it numbed my mind sufficiently to sleep at any moment.
Stay well away from this, my friends! Don’t be a non-DNFing Wulf!
One star out of five.
Ceterum censeo Putin esse delendam
Originally posted at turing.mailstation.de.