Perhaps it’s the autism, but I am faithful to a fault. Monogamy in just about every form is a piece of cake for me.
Even when it’s dumb. And this is a prime example.
I was a Goosebumps kid, through and through but I would see these Christopher Pike books in the shops with rad covers (not this one). I was irrationally indignant, offended that some other YA/children’s horror writer would DARE take shelf space away from RL Stine and I refused to read it out of principle.
Dumb.
Dumb, hell, it’s downright tragic because 1) more horror is always a good thing, 2) there’s room at the table for more horror writers, and 3)…
Pike’s a better writer.
I know, I know. If you grew up in my era you would think that nobody could possibly touch Stine because of all the success he got but Pike STOMPS all over him in this book. It’s tight, it’s entertaining, and it didn’t feel shallow.
(You’ll have to pardon the pun.)
This book is a supernatural murder mystery and I. Fucking. Loved. It.
I can’t recommend it enough. I know The Midnight Club might be a more famous book, but trust me: this is the one to try out Pike. It’s nothing but great and Midnight Club is more… well say niche. I’ll go into it more later.
For right now, though, I’m questioning my life’s decisions. So many years wasted when I could have given myself the freedom to try new things, branch out, experiment, and probably most importantly, drop something altogether if it’s not making me happy.
Barr minimum I should stop being so wildly loyal to a handful of authors, get out there, and be nothing short of a literary slut.
You should, too. It’s good for the soul.
Maybe start with this one. ;-)
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