I can't express how badly I wanted to love this book. I read this book because of the hype, the great reviews on here, and because I had been looking for something with a meaningful look on death and sisterhood.

Overall this narrator is on some kind of identity-seeking quest, writing letters to dead people she doesn't know personally. Which is an interesting concept, because the one dead person whose death has personally hurt her enough to start her identity-quest, is only mentioned in passing. It is easier to acknowledge death when it is not personal. Her attempts to make these celebrities personal are tawdry.

Her letters to the dead celebrities contain a few details and references that I could have gotten skimming wikipedia. This narrator so distraught by the death of her sister that she refuses to ever say a single detail about it. So instead these letters become a diary in disguise that isn't disguised.
So when she falls in love with the stereotypical bad boy, her love letters to the dead are actually just love letters to this boy (Sky) sandwiched between celebrity references and the narrator's projections of how the celebrities would be if they were still alive. It is an exercise in what not to do while writing an epistolary. The plot of this book and the passiveness of the narrator cheapen the whole "love letters to the dead" concept so much that the entire format is wasted and ruined.