What a damn trainwreck. 283 pages. A book I should have barreled through in a day, and instead, it took me far longer than I ever anticipated. I haven't read a Farris book in probably 40 years, but remember the ones I did read with fondness, which is why I decided to seek out a few more and dig in.

This likely wasn't the one to kick off that endeavour.

It takes virtually half the novel for the story to kick in to gear. There's far, far too much detail and description, and characters that are given way too many pages (I'm looking at you, Neddie) when, in the end, they essentially add nothing to the plot.

Important scenes have presumably been left on the cutting room floor. Seriously. Stuff happens and I flipped back through the pages to see if, in my boredom, I'd missed them. Nope. Shit happened off-stage. So, instead, we get details of buildings, hotels, tourist areas, bicycling events, but we don't see important, plot-impacting events. What the hell, John?

And then the end comes barreling at the reader with virtually no warning. I think the entire structure of this story is flawed. Things that were held back--presumably to keep the reader wondering, or in suspense, or for sheer shits and giggles--could have been coughed up instead of the confusing prologue we got.

So, yeah, in the end, I'm a touch reluctant to dig into another Farris novel, but I will. Hell, the next one's gotta be better than this one, right?

Right? ( )