Embarking on a new book genre should never be taken lightly. We are made up of everything we read. Books plant seeds in our mind. Therefore, I was hesitant to read anything in the thriller section of the local library.
I don’t do horror. I never have. Some people enjoy being scared. The racing heart and fear of death make them feel alive. I would rather go jogging in a lightning storm. Shows like CSI and Criminal Minds have me borrowing my kid’s nightlight and listening for my dog’s warning bark all night long. Call me a wimp if you will, I can take it.
As I vowed to search out new experiences, I felt compelled to read a thriller; if only to say that I had. Scanning the racks, I found the classic thriller, Frankenstein, by Mary Shelly. Aha! I have it!
I really was excited to read the book. However, after the first three chapters of NOTHING, my excitement dropped to a sorry level. When I finally met Dr. Frankenstein, I was under impressed. Where was the excitement? Where was the fear? Where was the monster? (Because he disappears for TWO YEARS, and way too many pages, after his creation.)
I haven’t finished it and probably won't. There I said it. I couldn’t because I kept falling asleep when I read. I expected the book to have me laying awake at night silently debating if the noise I heard was worth waking my hubby to investigate (there’s no way I’m going to go out there!) Instead, it lulled me to sleep faster than a warm glass of cocoa and an evening without children.
The one thing I loved about the book was the language. Shelley’s vocabulary was a joy to partake of. I can only pray that the 13 chapters of excellent prose I did read subconsciously melted some of those delicious phrases into the recesses of my mind.
This weeks adventure – a failure. (I guess they can’t all be great.)