Yesterday I finished Missing by Lindsay Harrison. Usually I avoid tear jerking stories and by the cover and title it was obvious I would cry while reading this. I did, I did not laugh once.
I wanted to read it because it is a memoir, one day I may write a memoir. It will be called the Parrot In Luxembourg Garden. OR maybe I'll call it the Flight of The Paintbrushes. Okay like so what? I agree.
I hated this book by Lindsay Harrison. I give her a big five star rating for her writing ability. To keep me hooked on such an awful story is amazing. I am the number on put-the-book-down reader and let's read something else.
The worst part of reading this book happened when I had coffee with friends yesterday morning, the book hiding in my bag waiting for the metro ride to Ivry-sur-Seine, the butt hole of the world, where my awesome atelier awaits. My dear friend tells me that the father of some child she knows has gone missing the night of New Years Eve. Jimminy Criminy. I had to leave the cafe after they started talking about other horrid tales. The air left my lungs.
Why do writers tell these stories? Are there really that many people out there that want to hear this negative horrid yucky stuff? So it happens, so what. I kept turning the book and looking at the picture on the back cover of this smiling woman. It didn't make sense. She can write well. I hope she finds some better subject matter.
Transport me, make me dream. I love going to a movie or reading a book that I crave for when it has finished. Not the case for Missing. I couldn't wait for it to end.
Five stars for your ability to tell a story and keep me hooked and your courage to tell this but 1 star for even wanting to tell it. Your catharsis is my anxiety.
I wanted to read it because it is a memoir, one day I may write a memoir. It will be called the Parrot In Luxembourg Garden. OR maybe I'll call it the Flight of The Paintbrushes. Okay like so what? I agree.
I hated this book by Lindsay Harrison. I give her a big five star rating for her writing ability. To keep me hooked on such an awful story is amazing. I am the number on put-the-book-down reader and let's read something else.
The worst part of reading this book happened when I had coffee with friends yesterday morning, the book hiding in my bag waiting for the metro ride to Ivry-sur-Seine, the butt hole of the world, where my awesome atelier awaits. My dear friend tells me that the father of some child she knows has gone missing the night of New Years Eve. Jimminy Criminy. I had to leave the cafe after they started talking about other horrid tales. The air left my lungs.
Why do writers tell these stories? Are there really that many people out there that want to hear this negative horrid yucky stuff? So it happens, so what. I kept turning the book and looking at the picture on the back cover of this smiling woman. It didn't make sense. She can write well. I hope she finds some better subject matter.
Transport me, make me dream. I love going to a movie or reading a book that I crave for when it has finished. Not the case for Missing. I couldn't wait for it to end.
Five stars for your ability to tell a story and keep me hooked and your courage to tell this but 1 star for even wanting to tell it. Your catharsis is my anxiety.
