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camerongarriepy 's review for:
Wildwood
by Colin Meloy
I hate to admit this, but I think I have to just stop trying with this book. I've had it half finished in my Kindle for a year and a half.
I am devoted to Meloy's songwriting talent, and the Decemberists are one of my favorite bands. No contest. The trouble is, the delightful whimsy and hyper-literate wit that makes his songs so brilliant doesn't sustain over hundreds of pages of narrative.
I was bored. I'm kind of disappointed in myself for it, but there you go.
UPDATE (1/16/18): I've been reading the Wildwood Chronicles with my 4th grader, who loves the idea of a hidden magical realm alongside a real city we can Google. I've long been a fan of Colin Meloy's quirky troubadour writing as the frontman and songwriter for The Decemberists, but my relationship with these books is complicated. Meloy writes prose like he writes song lyrics, often without regard to established metaphor, and flagrant re-defining of words and images. For fans of the band, it's stylistically like a more narratively cohesive Hazards of Love. What that meant for me as a reader, though, was that I take more away from the book when I'm reading it aloud, performing it, because it feels like singing along with something from The Crane Wife or Hazards.
We went straight into Under Wildwood, without question.
I am devoted to Meloy's songwriting talent, and the Decemberists are one of my favorite bands. No contest. The trouble is, the delightful whimsy and hyper-literate wit that makes his songs so brilliant doesn't sustain over hundreds of pages of narrative.
I was bored. I'm kind of disappointed in myself for it, but there you go.
UPDATE (1/16/18): I've been reading the Wildwood Chronicles with my 4th grader, who loves the idea of a hidden magical realm alongside a real city we can Google. I've long been a fan of Colin Meloy's quirky troubadour writing as the frontman and songwriter for The Decemberists, but my relationship with these books is complicated. Meloy writes prose like he writes song lyrics, often without regard to established metaphor, and flagrant re-defining of words and images. For fans of the band, it's stylistically like a more narratively cohesive Hazards of Love. What that meant for me as a reader, though, was that I take more away from the book when I'm reading it aloud, performing it, because it feels like singing along with something from The Crane Wife or Hazards.
We went straight into Under Wildwood, without question.