shelvedbysara 's review for:

Mrs S by K. Patrick

1.0

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This was a literary disaster. Where do I even begin? 

Firstly, the writing. There’s poetic prose — and then there’s this. It tries to be lyrical like Ocean Vuong, but fails miserably. “How is he, how is Dad? You know him, the very same, won’t quit the cigs. The door handle twists. She, The Housemistress, enters, all hips.” Honestly, what am I even reading? It feels like prose forced into poetry, with random words shoved into sentences for the sake of a cheap rhyme. The cringe is transcendental. 

Forget character development, forget plot, forget scene-setting, forget even the point of the narrative—because there isn’t one. The sensual scenes? Pure chaos, to say the least. I was too distracted by the muddled writing to focus on whether or not it was hot. There’s no sequence of movements, no logic, just a jumble of disconnected images. Somehow, this book manages to spend an entire chapter describing someone trying to kill a wasp, yet skims past a sex scene as if it couldn’t be bothered with coherence. It’s as if the reader is expected to stitch together the pieces and make sense of the mess.

I’d say this was “no plot, just vibes,” but even the vibes didn’t stand a chance. I couldn’t bring myself to care about anything or anyone, and I doubt the author even wanted me to care. There was simply no point to this book. 

Save yourself the energy. It’s already too late for me.