As I said in my review of Tess Gerritsen’s The Surgeon, I was out looking for other mystery writers to read other than white men. One female writer who came up time and time again was Megan Abbott. So I grabbed The End of Everything since it was a past read of the Pulp Fiction community on Goodreads. Usually I don’t pay attention to the Goodreads’ ratings as I find them a bit inflated, considering my average rating for books is 3.27 out of 5 while most of the Goodreads friends are somwhere above 4. The End of Everything came in at a 3.37, the lowest Goodreads ranking of a book I read.
But it was not that I was ignoring the numbers, rather I paid no attention to them and set forth Megan Abott’s 2011 novel. A couple of days later and I was perplexed with all the praise for Abbott. I was half-way through The End of Everything and only one thing had happened, the abduction of the narrator’s friend. Meanwhile there are too many passages like this one:
There was something here, something that might mean something. Something found, something that put an aha catch in my throat, but I can’t reckon it now. I can’t hold the ends together and lift it to my eyes.
I stumble around to the back of the house, stubbing my toe three times, the last time feeling a hot push of blood under my toenail.
Something’s there, wedged beneath my foot.
I bend down and look upon it.
The fluorescent bend of the garden hose, the spike from its hard nozzle.
But it reminds me. It puts form to that hovering thought.
If these passages were less frequent, maybe my reading of the second half of the book might have been more attentive.
Maybe I don’t get this whole “domestic noir” scene lead by Gone Girl and Girl on a Train, neither of which I have read, but Abbott’s The End of Everything is not helping on the decision to pick up these books.