The novel hails itself as the next Inception (i.e., a book within a book within a book), but nowhere does it come remotely close to what it so desperately wanted to achieve. In actuality, it was a dumpster fire – chaotic and abrupt developments that made no sense yet somehow became more asinine as the novel progressed.
Consumed with grief over the passing of her daughter, acclaimed author Olivia Rossi moves to Paris for a much-needed fresh start. There, she’ll stay at her editor’s apartment for the summer and hopefully garner inspiration for her next novel. On her first day, she meets local artist James Blackwood at a café, where, for the first time in a long time, she feels seen. But when he propositions her to a portraiture session, she immediately turns him down and flees, choosing instead to cocoon herself from what she believes to be inevitable heartbreak. But when fate intervenes and she runs into him again – this time at their landlord’s party – she takes it as a sign that maybe she can be vulnerable again. Little does she know, however, that things may not be what they seem …
The synopsis was incredibly deceiving. In hindsight, J.T. Geissinger did provide a note that foreshadowed the novel’s eventual conclusion. However, regardless of her comparison to the masterpiece that was Inception, her plot twists were thoughtlessly and haphazardly strewn. In essence, Olivia discovers that her ex-husband was the intended target of their daughter’s murder, as he had made powerful enemies illegally trading arms. When she learns that her new lover, James, is an assassin (!), she asks him to murder her daughter’s assailant and bring his head (!) back as a symbol of retribution. Shortly after they get their happy ending, the scene sudden morphs into Olivia bedridden at a psychiatric hospital. The already asinine plot, which represented 80% of the novel, was revealed to be a HALLUCINATION. James turns out to be a figment of her imagination conjured out of guilt. Olivia was the one who had accidentally killed her own child when she had lost control of her body and subsequently, her vehicle, from ALS. When she returns to “reality” (aka a loveless marriage to her uncaring “ex” husband), she makes it her personal mission to return to her dream state with James. She succeeds right before she succumbs to her illness, which the epilogue then reveals to be a HOAX. The true Olivia is pitching the intertwined stories to her editor, with James being a tribute to her actual loving husband. The novel ultimately ends with Olivia rushing home to tell him about her latest novel(s) and their (real and alive) daughter overhearing her parents having sex (!). It was insane.
The worst part of it all was the delusional scene at the end where the editor was lauding the first two novels and proclaiming the gut-wrenching emotions that they supposedly evoked. With the author’s inclusion of that scene, it seemed like she was patting herself on the back for being “inventive” or creating a “moving piece of art”. However, this couldn’t be further from reality. The jarring and inane plot twists aside, the “book within a book within a book” concept would have only worked had she made me feel invested in the story. For instance, in Inception, I wanted to learn more about Cobb’s backstory. I was curious about his family and how he ended up being the person he was today. In contrast, the first 80% of Perfect Stranger was so insipid that I couldn’t give one iota about the protagonists or their fate. Maybe that was the point of it all? Perhaps James being too “perfect” or Olivia too distant were indications that it was all an illusion? At the end of the day, however, it didn’t really matter because the corny dialogue (including James’ constant proclamations of undying devotion based on NOTHING) and the prolific but tedious sex scenes made the novel feel torturous. The actual writing was so robotic and uninspiring that the eventual plot twists only left me brimming with fury.
Per the author’s own admission, she decided to incorporate the most random plot twists just because, never mind that they weren’t coherent or well-written. It was infuriating that these doltish plot twists came so late in the game and with what felt like zero warning. The biggest offender however, was the lack of self-awareness. The self-praise was purely delusional, particularly considering the majority of the novel centred around protagonists with zero chemistry or individual charm. Nonetheless, the author did manage to pull off a colossal feat: a simultaneously monotonous, distant-feeling and chaotic clusterfuck of a “journey”.