Mental note: don't read any books by J. B.
Blackwood.

A masterfully written, complex book about an author who, in trying to resurrect her disintegrating marriage to a man 20 years or so her senior, arranges a luxury cruise ostensibly to celebrate their 14th wedding anniversary. No-one is prepared for the tragic outcome that changes her life in dramatic ways and injects the feeling almost of a thriller into the narrative. It's a fascinating insight into not just the nexus between writing and intimate relationships but into the world of elite literary prizes, promotion and publishing. The protagonist is a conflicted and strangely submissive character whose intense self-reflection and analysis of her personal history becomes heavy going at times.

I guess I should have paid MORE attention to the goodreads description, which opened with "For fans of Lisa Halliday and Susan Choi"!

This was not for me. Maybe I just had the wrong expectations, that this would be thriller-ish, but rather than appreciating the literary aspects/pace, I found it tedious. It had an "unreliable narrator" vibe/uncertainty of early 2000s writing ("Something terrible that I would later try to forget" "all often I doubt my own version of events. There are things I did not wholly remember, but which I am sure did happen – there is an outline of them in my head, but the content is missing.") which, at the halfway point, I did not find payoff for (I waited a while before putting this down, fully aware that it might completely turnaround in the second half, but I couldn't stand finding out).

There was a lot here that was promising to me, especially about gender ("the woman’s victory is marked by a definition in the negative, by the idea of an absence. It is unflinching, unsentimental, uncompromising, rather than being labelled for what it is: tough, hard-headed, gritty, piercing, robust, muscular, searing, bold, etc. I could go on. All those positives that are given to the men. We, on the other hand, are defined once more against the expectations of our sex, the assumed lack."), but unfortunately I couldn't keep going, especially in the framework of "brilliant writer character writes about how hard writing brilliantly is."

The ending and beginning of this book was interesting but there was no clear definition of when Luci was in the past and when she was in the present. That frustrated me as I was constantly confused of where the reader was. The concept was good just not so good exceution. Also, please add speech marks. Please.

Genuinely suspenseful from beginning to end, in the high end cinematic way that it regularly makes reference to (while also discussing and demonstrating the differences of literature). A rollicking noir, investigating the blurred lines between story and history.

'But you can't do that, Patrick told me. You can't cut that whole scene, the drive and everything. I love that bit. I just shook my head, I found it hard to even think of that scene, to remember it. I couldn't have it in a book. I'd tried before and every time deleted it at the last minute, filling the gap with a bridging passage. Besides, Patrick continued, why is everything so ahistorical now? As if we're all made of fucking plastic, smooth and cool to the touch. Why not let her crap on? It's your life. Or hers, I mean.'

Not what I expected. A meandering, surprising, stream of consciousness exploration of storytelling, memory, and intent. Enjoyable and thought provoking

I didn't love this book but I finished it and that's saying a lot these days.