My Love / Hate Relationship With My Book Club

Most days, I love the fact that I’m a part of a summer book club.  It allows me to read books like Since You’ve Been Gone (review here) that are wonderfully charming, and which I would never have read on my own.

But some days, I want to kill the head of the book club.  (Not really – I love her to death.  HAHAHA, that’s funny.)  Why? Because the book we read this week took my heart out of my chest, dunked it into a bucket of acid, sliced it into thirty million pieces, and fed the remains to power-hungry vultures with sharp beaks.  Needless to say, it didn’t end well.  Or at least the way I wanted it to.  (I’m not mentioning the name of the book, because the fact that I didn’t like the ending is a huge spoiler for it.)

AND THE WORST PART?  I started out loving the book.  The voice was fresh, charming.  The setting added to the mood, as it is supposed to.  There was the perfect amount of suspense, the dialogue was done well.  “This is my favorite thing in the universe,” I said frequently as I tore through the pages.  The mystery was intriguing, pulling me onward faster and faster and faster, and then



came out

and it hurt

in ways that I

was not ready for


It felt like I’d been cheated, because the entire book was a giant lie.  Half the characters had been dead for half the story without the MC knowing it.  She was hallucinating.  She was responsible for their death.  And that fact was so agonizing that her brain would delete it.

no matter how many times she was told

she couldn’t accept

that she’d killed them

until the end.

she remembered

we discovered

the truth.

and it hurt.

the end.

Epilogue: I love my book club.  I just didn’t like this book.  But I do love that we can discuss our emotions and anger and feelings, look for hidden clues in the mystery, and tell each other that the next book will be better.

Cause if it’s not, I quit.

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