This is the most “white room syndrome” book I’ve read - no descriptions, just a tropey YA plot and a horned-up internal monologue. Its redeeming quality is, in my opinion, its approach to disability, which feels so genuine that it’s frustrating to see in an otherwise empty book.
I don’t think the prose here is as interesting as in C&F. It’s cleaner, a clear through-line, clear character journeys and emotional arcs. If you want to read a story about sisterly love and addiction and grief, this might be a good pick, but don’t expect it to change your world.
An essential part of the cinephile experience is periodically cleansing your palate with a terrible, offensively awful, dogshit movie. This is the secret key to becoming a well-rounded, cultured film enjoyer.
"coddling bad writers is why fandom produces so many atrocious writers" stop for a moment and ask yourself why you're expecting fandom to "produce" anything. why must every human activity be done flawlessly enough to be sold? why can't people have hobbies they suck at?
I think the idea that astrology is somehow innately 'women's fun' is sexist. It's pseudoscience and a reasonable deal-breaker, same as if a man is going on about, say, seed oils and fitness woo.