"Fallout" By Ellen Hopkins Review!

Man, have I been on a roll with reading. It's really making me feel smarter, and it's loosening the bonds of writers block.

For the last two days I've been reading "Fallout" by Ellen Hopkins. Before I even get into the review deeply, I have to say that this book is the last in her "Crank" trilogy, so do not read this until you've read the first two books. And, that this review is going to be more like me gushing about how much I love this author.

I came across Ellen Hopkins when I was reading books about drugs a few years back. I took Crank out the library because I thought it was cool that the words looked like lines of coke. I didn't know what the book was about, I didn't know what the Monster was (in NYC, the Monster is usually used as a code for HIV), I didn't know what it did to your body.

The books looks intimidating from a distance (or like an awesome challenge to someone that loves reading), but then when you begin, you see that it's written as poetry. Usually I try not to talk about plot too much, but I have to in this case. "Crank" is a fictionalized version of Hopkins' daughter's battle with crystal meth.

I really didn't know what an epidemic the usage was, but I'd seen those horror photos of people before and after meth. I didn't know that it was so widely available in so many places. I didn't know anything; this book taught me nearly all I know. This trilogy of books cover over twenty years in the lives of the character, and her children. "Fallout" is the story of her children.

The first thing I have to say, is I love Ellen Hopkins style. In this book, the three different protagonists/narrarators have three different styles of headings, three different type faces. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, they're not. And then her poems themselves... I hope that there is a picture I can insert here (there wasn't, but at the first link, she has some amazing samples, and an awesome summary of the story better than this review lol). Her poems aren't written straight forward. Sometimes they tumble down the page, sometimes they take shapes, forms of letters, question marks. Quite a lot of the time, there is more than one poem in the poem, and I have to urge you to read the initial poem before reading the side poem, or you might get the wrong idea. Sometimes, the poems are part of a series of poems, and the side poems are a series of poems.

Each of the main characters have their own demons that they're fighting, their own issues stemming from the Monster. It shows how meth doesn't just effect the user, it effects everyone they come in to contact with, especially their children. I think this book should be on ever middle school mandatory reading list, especially in areas where meth is an epidemic. I always knew that there was a list in the back of my head of no-no drugs, and there is a reason why meth is at the top of that list. With "Crank" I saw how the protagonist, someone that could have been one of my friends, dabbled in it, and what happened with her life. It steals everything that ones has, and it rots holes in your brain, and metaphorically speaking, in your heart.

Unlike most of my other reviews, this book is an actual hard copy of a book; I held it in my hands, I flipped pages, I had its weight with me in all the rooms of my apartment. This is a book that will make you talk to it, talk to the main characters, whether you're urging them to take another path, or cursing at them for the choices they made (I did that a lot). The characters aren't perfect people, they're young adults, like me, but they grew up so very different from me; maybe they grew up in ways like some of you. And although they're siblings, they grew up so very different from each other. Even thinking about the things they went through, it makes me feel a type of negative way.

My recommendation for someone that wants to jump in to Ellen Hopkins' books, take them out the library. You can start with "Crank" or one of other stand alone stories. But if you start with "Crank", I really suggest taking "Glass" and "Fallout" out at the same time, because you're not going to want to wait to read what happens next. These are some of the few books I thoroughly plan on owning in my private library, hard copy, and if I can, getting them signed. Ellen Hopkins' is simply one of the best young adult writers out there.

"Second Child" By John Saul Review

I mentioned there would be a lot of updates.

A few days ago, I finally took up my sister on her fantastic reviews of the book Second Child by John Saul, and bought it for my Kindle. I spent my day yesterday reading it, and I have to say, it really was a good book.

It is quite a bit different from most of the other works that I've read, because it's incredibly modern, published in 1991, and its setting is the late 80s, early 90s. My sister read it years ago when I was a youngin'; from what she describes, it's odd that it wasn't one of the many books of hers that I stole at the age and read, although I must admit the cover looks somewhat familiar to me.

Anyway, on to the review. I'm not going to get into all of the details of the plot, but it revolves mostly around two half sisters, brought together by tragedy to live together amongst the elite hoity toity in Secret Cove, Maine, at their father's summer house. But strange things that have already happened, begin to grow more frequently.

This book has one of the worst mothers that I've read, only a few steps beneath Catherine Dollenganger , as far as how she treats her daughter. It's a really awesome story, and not something that I would have read recently if I wasn't told how good it is. It crosses over quite a few different genres; it's young adult, it's horror, it's supernatural, it's a bit psychological, it's a thriller... it's a really nice page turner.

There are some cons, some times where I shook my head, talked to my Kindle about how the character was acting/responding to what was going on with her. I'm trying to figure out how characters could be so totally blinded by beauty and grace to not believe what was going on around them. I really don't want to give away anything that happens, because I'd love for you to read it yourself.

As far as the Kindle copy, it was lovely... and $7.99. Now, I'm still not sure how I feel about paying that much for it, but considering my sister told me this is a book that I would want to own, I'm not upset. If you're a fan of John Saul, then I would suggest buying it. If you're someone that's never read his work, I would suggest going to your local library and taking out a copy, and buying it if you find that it's too awesome to part with. There are already other books by the same author that my sister is suggesting for me to look at, and I have to say, I'd love to read more of his work. I might actually have to go to the library and take out some books, just like I used to do when I was younger.

The Pearl Ring-- An Essay

            I’m not one that’s much for jewelry. I constantly wear a necklace, and I occasionally put something into one of the four holes in my ears. I especially don’t wear rings; it’s hard to find rings for sausage fingers. In fact, I only owned one ring.

            It’s wasn’t a fancy ring, but it was special. A single pearl sat in a gold band, with two small chips of diamonds on either side, like miniature bookends supporting it. There was a small dent in the bottom of the ring from something that I had done wrong. It was a simple ring, but it held special meaning to me.

            Pearl was the birthstone of both me and my mother. She was the one that bought it for me. Being only eight days apart, June was always a special time for us. I adored June, and our connection with each other. It was a special ring to me, but I rarely wore it, instead, it stayed in a heart shaped jewelry box on my mother’s night stand, along with her earrings and wedding band.

            I never worried about my ring because it sat next to her bed. Anything kept with my mother would always have a place. It would always be safe; I’d know where it was. I never thought anything about it because it was safe. That’s the same way I thought about my mother. I never thought about her as anything other than being there, because she was secure. She was my anchor, in so many ways; steady, beneath the surface, always there, always doing its function, and yet, so often going without the credit it is due.

            Especially to a bipolar teenage daughter finding her own way; a daughter that was much more into her own shenanigans and social life, than into what occurs with her family. She was like the pearl ring, I never thought of it not being there, because it never crossed my mind that one day she might not be there.

            But just as she is gone, so is the ring. After she died, I cleaned my mother’s side of her bedroom. It had been ransacked, robbed, violated in ways akin to rape. My mother was a packrat, but a neat one. Everything on her side had its place, and stayed in its place. The side of her bed that I cleaned was not the neat stacks that I had grown up with. Her neat piles were now shifting dunes. Her dresser had been rummaged through, her jewelry box missing beautiful pieces.

            The heart that had sat next to her bed for so many years, was gone in its entirety. I could accept her physical heart being cremated, in a box, but the idea of that porcelain heart no longer being in our apartment was something different. I wouldn’t have expected it to ever leave, it was an inanimate object, it couldn’t die. It held the pearl ring just as my mother’s physical heart held my love.

            But people, siblings, took her heart, because of its physical worth. Because they wanted money. They stole from the one person who would have gladly given her last to them. It’s hard for me to think of that ring, with its diamond chips and dented band, sitting in the window of a pawn shop.

            I wonder if someone bought it for their daughter, mother or lover. It wonder if that person was born in the moth of June as well. They probably don’t think of the memories that someone else had with it. If they think it might have been a mother’s present to her youngest daughter, the only daughter that shared her birthday month.

            I wonder what my brother and his girlfriend spent that $50 or $100 on, and if it was worth it. Do they even think about that money or that rings two years later? Did they even think about the emotions connected to it? I hope that it served them well.

            For them, it was only worth the amount of money they could get for it. For me, it was priceless, something I would give my lung to have on my finger just one more time.