I finally got 'round to finishing The Way I Found Her, by Rose Tremain, and I am so mad that I wasted my time reading this stupid story. The narrator is not believable. The story's a bit weird and, toward the end, completely not believable.
It's supposed to read as a coming-of-age story, but nothing makes me care what happens to the 13-year-old boy narrator. Perhaps I can't relate because I've never been a 13-year-old boy. But then, neither has the author. I just don't buy any of it.
The whole book just makes me mad. It reminds me of those creative writing workshops I attended, where someone has a little bit of talent but mostly she's just a poser. She fancies herself a literary artist, dahling, but she's a big fat phony and sadly the workshop doesn't go on long enough for the prof to realize it and dissuade her from the literary lifestyle or at least focus her talent and help to rein in the pretense. It feels like that's who wrote this book, and it just makes me so mad I wasted my time on it.