In a future where twerking is the new square dancing, a lonely woman befriends a 50-pound spider.
I’m a sucker for a novel with soul. What do I mean by soul? I mean the writing equivalent of singing as opposed to dancing around while lip-syncing. Maybe that doesn’t help much, so how about this: I like to read a novel that makes me feel like I’m sitting in a comfy chair in front of a roaring fire with a nice glass of Oregon Pinot Noir while my good friend, the author, sitting in an equally comfy chair with the beverage of their choice, is telling me a story.
That’s the way reading Guest made me feel. The novel has plenty of flaws. It could have used a good line-editing. Sub-plots are started and left dangling. Some good opportunities to throw interesting monkey wrenches into the works are squandered.
But . . . if you've got the fire and the comfy chair and the Pinot Noir . . . well, what’s a typo or a loose end or two among friends?