tenth-circle Don’t look at me! It was a book club selection. No, I don’t have anything against Jodi Picoult or her passionate fans. I’m just not one of them. Picoult is first and foremost a storyteller — all about plot, plot, plot — and I’m one for the artistry of the words, so I’ve let her words go one way while my eyes roam another direction for reading material. Until this round of book club, when I read The Tenth Circle.

I was tempted not to finish it. The first half is so utterly painful, the story of a 15-year-old girl who has been date raped and all the typical victim doubt, blame and shame that I utterly loathe in the newspapers and don’t want to see rehashed on the page. (With no twists from the newspapers’ usual stories either, which might have made the story less like the deplorable thing every other teen in America seems to go through.) At the halfway point, however, the story expanded beyond the incident and I was able to muck my way through.

Expanded beyond the incident? That’s an understatement. How about ballooned out of all reckoning into graphic novels, suicide, the plight of native Americans, dog mushing races and beyond.

No personal offence to Jodi or her fans, and not to say that her other books aren’t leaps and bounds better, but on top of the experience of this one novel I’ll have to say: Sorry, I’m just not that into you. And sorry for leaving this review on such a corny note, but that stupid phrase seems to sum up my feelings completely.

Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars – Mediocre vacation reading