Some books really are asking for it. Take the one I'm talking about now. No, I'm not going to tell you the title, not yet. Not until you're ready. But to explain. I picked up a novel, by 'Best selling' auther JA Jance, at my local library the other day. Two things struck me as soon as I looked at the cover. Yes, I know. Never judge a ... but just bear with me, okay. Cliches are sometimes true. This book's cover was asking for it.
The first thing wrong with it was the title. Yes, I know, I still haven't told you what it is yet. I'm a tease. The second thing wrong with it was the strapline below the title, which proclaimed this book to be 'A Novel of Suspense', a high falutin' wording that vaguely echoed Conrad's line in titles (Nostromo: a Tale of the Seaboard). Old Joe could do it of course; but here, proclaiming the book to be 'A Novel of Suspense' only managed to sound both pompous and wistful at the same time. This wasn't a quote from some gushing hack, mind you. It was a claim advanced by the novel itself. Any book promoting itself in such a way is setting expectations that it damn well better live up to. Paradise Lost, however, does not.
Paradise Lost? Yes, indeed. I kid you not. She called her book that. Barging fearlessly where angels fear to treat, or something like that, and appropriating a title that might - just might - have a bit of history.
And the funny thing is, it is totally irrelevant. There's no reason for anything to be called Paradise Lost. I guess Jance just thought it sounded kinda cool.
The story stumbles along the predictable road of far too many 'series' novels - the tiresome set ups and rehashings of previous entries in the series, the irritating supporting entourage of characters you know you are supposed to love and don't, but which the writer is too enamoured with (or arrogantly thinks her readers are) and the annoying intrusions of the character's personal life into the narrative. Because, ya know, this ain't a detective story, it's a story about a detective and that means we have to know all about Tough-But-Sensitive Joanna Brady's romantic tribulations and her uneasy relationship with her daughter and ... and, ye gods, if I wanted a family saga I'd read one.
Plot wise, the novel is very predictable. The killer becomes
immediately obvious applying the standard 'least important character
rule'. This may have been intentional - I'd identified the killer as a prime suspect just because of his prominent placement, then decided he was too obviously a red herring, and devised a somewhat - to my mind - alternative. Which might be a testament to Jance's powers of misdirection, if it weren't for the crashing sense of disappointment when the killer is revealed. Scooby Doo did this sort of thing better.
So, no. Something was lost. The plot? My interest? But not paradise. It was a long, long way a way from where I was at.
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