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From the Queen's copious notes:
My highlighter ran out of ink and I ran out tape flags to note moments of "especial evil/Oh, FUCK NO - you didn't just go there, oh, you did - Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus" in the text (current count 47) on page 122.
No page has fewer than two adverbs. I think I've only counted two instances where dialogue was not attributed and dialogue (except for Edward, who speaks like a constipated version of Mr.Rochester) is generally so undifferentiated that I had trouble following who was speaking on both occasions.
This book, only, God help me, one quarter of the way in, is a steaming pile of dogshite. Fortunately, I had a copy of my mate's short-story* on the bus with me, which I rationed out at 500 words a time, every 25 pages of Twishite or so to keep from losing my mind. Good writing, y'all - Twishite isn't it.
What Twishite is, however, is extremely glib and pretentious. Meyer never uses one word where two will do or a short word if she can plumb the depths of her thesaurus to find a polysyllabic synonym to use instead. If it obfuscates rather than clarifies the action of her narrative the better.
Frankly, I'd get more pleasure out of running the book through a shredder, putting the results in the litter box and watching Tully take a dump on it.
*Writing of the one day I'll be telling you I went to school with her before she was short-listed for the PP kind. Also, soon to be published in a major lit journal. Watch me glow in the reflected glory.
p.74) The windows on the bus don't open, which is the only reason I don't heave [the book] out onto the [Queen Elizabeth Expressway]. It would be worth the $500 fine for littering on the highway.
My highlighter ran out of ink and I ran out tape flags to note moments of "especial evil/Oh, FUCK NO - you didn't just go there, oh, you did - Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus" in the text (current count 47) on page 122.
No page has fewer than two adverbs. I think I've only counted two instances where dialogue was not attributed and dialogue (except for Edward, who speaks like a constipated version of Mr.Rochester) is generally so undifferentiated that I had trouble following who was speaking on both occasions.
This book, only, God help me, one quarter of the way in, is a steaming pile of dogshite. Fortunately, I had a copy of my mate's short-story* on the bus with me, which I rationed out at 500 words a time, every 25 pages of Twishite or so to keep from losing my mind. Good writing, y'all - Twishite isn't it.
What Twishite is, however, is extremely glib and pretentious. Meyer never uses one word where two will do or a short word if she can plumb the depths of her thesaurus to find a polysyllabic synonym to use instead. If it obfuscates rather than clarifies the action of her narrative the better.
Frankly, I'd get more pleasure out of running the book through a shredder, putting the results in the litter box and watching Tully take a dump on it.
*Writing of the one day I'll be telling you I went to school with her before she was short-listed for the PP kind. Also, soon to be published in a major lit journal. Watch me glow in the reflected glory.