Name: Diary
ISBN: 9781400032815

Chuck Palahniuk

Working as a hotel maid despite her dreams of being an artist, Misty keeps a diary as she sits by the side of her husband, comatose after a suicide attempt, which unlocks Misty's creative energies and causes her to paint compulsively.

A Novel

Diary

Diary, ca. 1830-1860, of an unidentified traveler in India, Egypt, Turkey and Greece.

Lamia Hajani

Pretty damn terrifying, but a great read. My first Chuck Palahniuk book, woohoo! 

I think I'll read Tell-All next.

Fraser Simons

This has a really, I hesitate to use the word “fun” plot, because it’s, as you might expect, messed up. But it’s always engaging and you’re always trying to extrapolate where this may be going. And you may see the larger strokes, but the granular stuff that happens I don’t think anyone could possibly guess at. And that’s a plus in my book. 

What bothers me about it though, is that most of the other elements of writing craft are sacrificed to generate the repeated shocks and twists and thematic through line. Because plotting wise, this is essentially nonsense. Similar to not being able to guess a plot beat, it forms a counter narrative to what is established where the reader has to fill in huge gaps of the plot themselves, asking a lot—probably too much—from the reader. Subjectivity is something I usually like. This feels more like not leaving intentional white space, but not caring at all to bring craft to bear on certain aspects of the book. The plot looses its lustre the more you think about it, as there are a lot of plot holes. Far more than is normal. 

I did like what it had to say about sacrificing self to succeed and function in society, especially the intersections of that as pertaining to creating art, specifically. This, paired with just how compelling it was to consume, makes me think it’s worth a read. But it’s hard to imagine how it would exceed my expectations when it pretty much can only communicate what it’s about in a way that keeps you reading, but everything else, craft wise, is lacking.

Ehhhhhh. Invisible Monsters was better.

This book reminded me of a YA (or, rather, the YA novel reminded me of this one because it came afterwards, but because I read the YA novel first, I'll just say that this one reminded me of the YA novel) novel called Madapple, which I reviewed here. As you can see, I was thoroughly weirded out by what happened in that book, but I still liked it well enough. Books tend to have that affect on me, as evidenced by Invisible Monsters, which I read yesterday.

Anyway. Yes. Madapple. Incest and fucked up plants.

I guess this one was Madapple x10000. More fucked up things. Less incest, though, so that's something. But. Um. What?

It was weird. Also, like Invisible Monsters made me want to stay the fuck away from the plastic surgery industry at all costs, this one makes me want to stay away from painting. Far away. Painting and artists. Aahhhhghghgh. *shudder* Now is not a good time approach me with a paint brush. Or ink. 

Just. Nope.

Kerri McDonald

Mr. Palahniuk always throws me off, but in the most delightful way. This entire book, I thought I knew what was going on. SURPRISE! I totally did not guess what was actually happening. I love a good surprise. Weird and dark and great. It's what I've come to expect from this author. I'm excited to pick up another one of his books soon!

Diary A Novel

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