Petals on the Wind
So remember when I wrote about how jazzed I was to be re-reading Flowers in the Attic? Well now I’m onto the second book in the series, Petals on the Wind, and boy have things gone downhill. The main character’s first marriage is full of domestic violence (which of course would stop if only she loved him hard enough); the incestuous and other, non-incestuous affairs continue hot and heavy (with lots of shafts and hot spurts and bosoms—the book is set in the 1960s…but come on!); huge developments (like character deaths and life-changing revelations) are in-explicitly (that is to say, not explicitly…barely noticeably) whispered over…though it’s more like half-audible choke-talking (as when trying to explain how the wind got knocked out of you while it’s still out of you) than whispering because the writing style is so choppy; other plotlines, like the protagonist’s continued plans of revenge against her mother (or dreams of being a prima ballerina) have become so repetitive and artless (not that they were ever artful, but at least they were less frequent) that they pepper practically every chapter; and so it continues.
Clearly the pre-teen me that was reading these books was not such a young literati as I like to recall. Makes me wonder why certain parts or ideas from the book have stuck with me so clearly while others (the rampant violence against women and self-imposed victim-blaming, for example) seem like new editions to the story.
So now I’m torn. I’m more than halfway through the second book, so I’m going to continue reading until it at least is done. But do I move on to the next book, with the intention of finishing out the whole series (five books total)? The list-making, plan-loving, loves-to-complete-things part of me says yes, of course. But another part of me, the part that still clings fast to the fond memories of this and other V.C. Andrews series says no, don’t ruin the memory. A smaller, third part suggests that maybe it will get better, so continuing might satisfy my other two conflicting desires, bringing me completion and putting a nice new shine on my nostalgia.
It is a risky decision.
I’m sick to puke of reading descriptions of flaxen blond hair and swelling curves, but I have vivid memories of certain scenes/parts that are really gruesome, shocking, and vengeful (many involving flaxen hair and swelling curves), which* keep me hanging on.
Despite my growing worries that someone will read over my shoulder the overly dramatic prose that constructs these scenes and judge me on either style or substance (my new e-reader coupled with the fact that I read almost exclusively while on public transit means that this is practically inevitable), is it worth my time to continue?
I’ll let you know. And if you happen to read over someone’s shoulder and catch the words “devil’s spawn” “Dresden dolls” or “I’ll get you Momma,” don’t judge me/them.
* I just wrote “chich” twice, instead of “which.” Chich (pronounced the same as “which,” but with a “ch” as in “chicken”) could be the next new thing. It sounds cool enough.
