This book was passed to me by my older sister, who is not a reader. That I know of, she had read two books in her life, and then Sookie Stackhouse and the HBO TrueBlood series came along and for the first time in her life she was anxiously waiting for a book release and asking for books for Christmas. So when she finished this one she brought it to me because she wanted me to love it too. That's sweet.
I hadn't read any of Harris' books but figured there must be some fantastic writing for her to have turned someone like my sister into a reader, so I looked forward to this.
It's appalling. Halfway through the first story I began to wonder if this series had actually been intended for children. The sentences are so short and the vocabulary so narrow that I felt like I was reading something just slightly more advanced than a school primer. The characters are one-dimensional, like stick figures, with descriptions that are little more than, "This vampire is tall, blonde and hot." By the second story I was sure that it was written by a child. A thirteen year-old had to be meeting publisher's deadlines in between orthodontics appointments and homework assignments. Nope, there's a picture of a grown woman on the backflap. Which just leaves me more confused than ever- what could possible have made this awful writer a best-seller? I just don't get it. I'm sending my sister a copy of Shirley Jackson. *