Kathy Hamilton 
Have you ever made a rash decision that you came to regret almost immediately? You know the kind, you try telling yourself everything is fine for a while, you might even try to make things work. Inside though, you know, your friends and loved ones know, EVERYONE knows, that you made a bad choice…and now you regret it.
No I’m not having relationship issues; I’m suffering from a case of “The Bad Book Blues” and let me tell you these babies are the kind of blues even Etta James would decide were too sad to sing about! Ok fine, melodrama aside, doesn’t it feel really rubbish when you get stuck with a terrible book? Especially when you have nothing else but that books to provide your entertainment for an entire weekend (camping- blergh). “Mr. Maybe” made me feel like I was in a bad relationship from start to finish…and it was awful, because it wasn’t supposed to be like that!
Why?
Well I’ll let you in on a little secret- I like to enjoy the books I read.
Can you believe it?
I know the aim of camping is to experience the outdoors, but let’s be honest I was stuck in a field. Short of climbing a tree I had nothing but a lot of spare moments, and here’s the thing, I regret wasting them on “Mr Maybe”.
I knew from around page 5 that “Mr. Maybe” and I were going to have issues with each other. I had been enticed by the idea of two prospective Mr. Rights vying for on Miss Right (what’s the female equivalent of Mr. Right anyway?) It seemed like an interesting twist on a familiar girl meets boy story and I think the question of whether there really is such a thing as Mr Right resonates with all of us on some level.However, by the time Libby (the heroine) had in engaged in a rather explicit sex scene- I knew “Mr. Maybe” was one ‘The One’. Not to paint too fine a picture, I’ll just say there are plenty of ways to approach the sex scene and Jane Green picked, possible, the most unattractive route. Call me scandalised, and now let’s move on!
If this was the only issue the book had I could have, literally, overlooked it by skipping ahead but it was just the first of many signs. I think the main problem, for me, was Libby. She was such a poor heroine that I found myself really disliking her. I just couldn’t understand where she was coming from or what her motives were (except greed) and I realised pretty quickly whatever ideas she had were pretty much opposite to my own. Libby was living to find a man, it was her mission in life, and how she judged her own, and others’, success.
Her aim was simply to find a man rich enough to allow her to quit her job. Fine, except her job (which she complained about) was pretty amazing and funded designer clothes and enabled her to own a flat in London. But, she didn’t have a Gucci bag (so she complained), or a Porsche (complained again), or a rich husband (complained a bit more)…so obviously her life was a failure. Can you see what I mean when I said I couldn’t understand her?
Libby was only validated by how she thought others perceived her. She craved the status of being a rich man’s wife and this really bugged me, mainly because this was the basic plot device that guided the whole book. Libby meets Nick: ‘Mr. Wrong’. Why does she think this? Nick is a writer (horror) and…dramatic pause…poor. Except that he went to Stowe School and has a sister with a trust fund, but that doesn’t count. It’s for this reason that she rejects him and decides he’s only worth a fling. The she meets Ed, who is not only rich- he’s investment banker rich and decides he is perfect for her, he even buys her a Gucci bag. Perfect right?
WRONG
What follows is about ten chapters of her, you guessed it, complaining about being with Ed. He’s boring, he has a moustache, he repulses her. And still she stays with him because he’s rich. It was at this point that I was ready to scream.
To cut a long story short “Mr. Maybe” is, in my opinion, a perfect example of the worst kind of romantic fiction and I’m angry with it for giving my favourite genre a bad name. When I read a romance I don’t want a self-absorbed snotty heroine making me feel rubbish. I’ll admit I’m being hard on Libby because she did change her attitude a bit by the end but it needs to be said. I’m not interested in a book which suggests that everything I do until I meet a man is pointless. I want the man to be the perk, the cherry on top of the layer cake of life. I’ve dedicated so much time to this post because I really think we need to leave books like this behind. The romance genre is so much better than them!
If you’ve stuck with me this far. Thank you. I really needed that little rant!
Do you feel the same?
Have you even had a similar experience with a bad romance (to quote Lady Gaga)?
Tell me all about it and we cant start the Bad Books League- to fight crime Bad Books!
I’d love to hear from you.
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