Forest Lover

When I was doing some grading a few years ago, grading 8th grade essays . . . I went nearly crazy because some of the kids couldn't get away from some idiotic way they learned in the 4th or 5th grade to start essays: Their intros were. Three. Words. Like:

Faith. Hope. Love. This is what it's all about.

Adventure. Confusion. Mystery. This book had it all.

Life. Death. Chocolate. What more is there?

Boring. Boring. Boring. I'd ding these for lack of originality.

Ding.

Dong.

Sometimes I find books that rely on what the author thinks is a tried and true method. I always ding them in my head . . . like the old "the main character comes to an understanding of ________ as she discovers her own sensuality."

It's been done.

It's been overdone.

It's burned to a crisp and smoking up the kitchen it's been done so many times.

And, so sorry to say, this is what happened with Susan Vhreeland's Forest Lover, about the artist Emily Carr who painted the art of the people who inhabited Canada. I really was interested in the art. The people. The culture. The conflict. The change.

I could care less, truly, about what Vhreeland thought was going on with Emily's sensuality discoveries.

As far as the book goes, the prose is uninteresting. Word choice is unstellar.

In other words . . . what I thought was . . .

Too much lover, not enough forest.