Mud Vein by Tarryn Fisher

2.5 Stars

 

Ha! Just kidding. Calm down, fangirls. I really had you going there for a minute though, didn’t I? Mud Vein definitely isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever read. Heck, it isn’t even the worst thing I’ve read this week (still looking at you for that one, Ted Callahan). I added this book to my TBR because . . . well, mainly because it was only a buck, but also because Tarryn Fisher and Colleen Hoover’s new co-written book was getting lots of hype (both positive and negative) and I wanted to give one of Ms. Fisher’s solo works a chance before I committed to either read or never read Never Never.

If you follow my reviews you know that I read a little bit of everything, but I will say that NA or whatever the f they are calling it today isn’t generally my genre of choice. When I saw Mud Vein shelved as “dark” and “suspense” and “thriller” and those shelves were accompanied by ranting and raving by fans, non-fans, and the author all talking about how this story was apparently super disturbing to some, I figured it could be a winner for me.



Yeah. I guess I like my “dark” like pitch black without even a sliver of light showing through. Although Mud Vein is the story of a reclusive author and her former stalker doctor discovering they have been kidnapped and apparently left for dead in a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness, it didn’t really get psychologically thriller-y enough for me.

KIND OF A SPOILER AHEAD, SO TURN BACK NOW IF YOU DON’T WANT ME TELLING YOU WHO WASN’T THE BAD GUY

Still Here? Okay, I know this wasn’t my book and it’s not my call who the bad guy is, but with all the hype I really wanted it to be Isaac. If he was a big enough nutbag to basically move himself in to Senna’s house when the “superbadawful” happened, why wouldn’t he be the one who locked her up with him in isolation until she admitted the “truth”????? But maybe that’s just me . . .



I’m giving this one 2.5 Stars because it was a perfectly average read for me. I thought Tarryn Fisher did a quality job of keeping the momentum of the story going, especially when it was very much driven by the inner workings of Senna’s head rather than via conversation. I will warn you, though, Ms. Fisher is a lover of language. If you are a reader who gets annoyed by 50 words being used where 5 would suffice (*cough* Tahereh Mafi *cough*), there’s a good chance this one won’t work for you. But when the words are written well . . .

“He was right there, making me look at him. His gaze was slicing. Sluicing. There was too much emotion. He kissed me with color, with drumbeat, and a surgeon’s precision. He kissed me with who he was, the sum of his life – and it was all encompassing.”

Sometimes it’s okay for there to be lots of them.

Oh, and dare I forget to mention the soundtrack chosen for this one. References to Awolnation and my most beloved Florence (as well as her Machine) really helped suck me in to the story.

“Your song reminds me of swimming, which somehow I’d forgot.”



I want to be Florence Welch when I grow up.