Yesterday, I finished a book I had been looking forward to reading ever since I first heard about it. The concept was intriguing, the book cover was eye-catching, and the author seemed cool - at least from the posts she wrote on a writing blog.
Then I read the book.
And I was... disappointed.
I didn't hate the book, like I have hated YA books in the past. I'm just... indifferent to it. I just don't care. I'll probably read the rest of the trilogy, but I won't be engaged with the story.
And that's the difference. At least with the series that I've hated - whether it's the writing, the characters, the plot - at least it's gotten a reaction out of me. (I threw a book across the living room because how frustrated I was with a character, no joke.)
This book, on the other hand, was just so bland. At the beginning of it, I was really annoyed with the character. One of the things I can't stand is when people feel sorry for themselves publicly. I get that everyone goes through pain and handles it differently, but when a character feels sorry for themselves in front of a guy who's supposed to be her romantic interest, I want to slap her. But the character is so dry that I don't even care, despite my annoyance.
I cared about none of the characters. Even the hero was boring. I didn't love him and didn't understand how she loved him, and he, her. She was overly defensive and he was infinitely patient.
To me, that equals boring, and that equals utter disappointment.
Now, I realize not everyone is going to like my books. They might hate the characters or the plot, or even the writing. But I hope I don't disappoint you. That's even worse than inflicting uncontrollable rage where you throw your Kindle across your living room (which I'm not responsible for, by the way).