Dark, foreboding collage of photos, postcards, and email exchanges by a loving mother and wife missing her successful husband … But I knew right away the diarist was doomed.
I bet she knew too.
She was just too insecure to read the clues she practically spelled out for everyone else including herself.
And that’s what was so annoying in this book.
I don’t have a sophisticated reading palate for Scrapbook-type novels, but I do for mysteries. On the one hand, I really liked this book—because I found the art really interesting; many of the images were haunting and eerie (though I wish some of the postcards or business cards were attached and not simply printed).
On the other hand, I found this book stupid, and Amy Zoe the stupidest. I sympathize with her, sure. Her character, the whimsy of it, her loving nature, did cross over from the collection of ephemera on her altered book.
But boy, did her character scream ‘victim’!
If she hadn’t died of other causes, I would probably have given her a whack in the head to bring her out of her self-pitying funk.