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Sex on Earth: A Celebration of Animal Reproduction
Jules Howard

Dear Daughter: A Novel

Dear Daughter: A Novel - Elizabeth  Little Ultimately Dear Daughter suffered from an author who seemed to use a snarky and obnoxious protagonist and overwrought and pretentious descriptions/metaphors to distract from the fact that the plot was cliché and mediocre.

...the slow gurgle of blood from a wound. I looked at my left shoulder. “Shit,” I breathed. “Red is so not my color.” Loc4640

Jane seriously does not know when to quit it.

The plot, which is extremely slow moving and at times leaves you wondering what the hell the point is, involves criminal/mystery cliches such as: cutting/dying hair for a new “identity”, police station break-in to somehow quickly find the very files you are looking for, decades old diary that breaks the case wide open found and complete strangers in a small town yapping openly about the very person the protagonist is attempting to locate. There are far more clichés, but this is a good handful of them. There was also a very aggressive and irritating blogger that in this day and age also felt cliché, though for different reasons. Said blogger also was predictable and added nothing to the story, in my opinion.

The author was also very, very fond of using obscure references which only seemed to be in order to show-off her highly thought of interests as a reader, movie and unknown (to me) furniture consumer. Unfortunately such references were to be found on, at the very least, every other page. Such as:

An accent out of a Tennessee Williams play and a genetic inclination for a farmer’s tan. He grew up in some asshole of a town in Mississippi, shit poor and hungry for everything but daddy issues, but his optimism remained improbably intact. I bet he still goes home every year for Thanksgiving thinking that this time he’ll finally talk the family into getting over Brown v. Board of Education. Loc177

He redeemed me by mere association. The Tourvel to my Valmont. The Hillary to my Bill. The Cindy Lou Who to my Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Loc188

Kristof had been in L.A. for a year or so when I saw him for the first time, cutting a line of coke in a club on Melrose like he was Michelangelo with a cube of baby laxative–laced Carrara. Loc1351

They may as well have been carrying matching copies of Rubyfruit Jungle. Loc1694

Overall I found the writing style overwrought and subsequently too eye-roll worthy to enjoy. The author's talent is weighed down by her attempts to be clever and her plotting needs serious work. I am unlikely to read the author again.