When I started reading Chelsea Cain's Heartsick I didn't really expect to enjoy it. Cain isn't a fantastic writer, she gets very caught up in over describing her characters, her environment and everything in between. I'm in great agreement with Stephen King who wrote in his book "On Writing" that the building of a scene in a book is collaborative and that if an author describes every detail in that scene they take away from the reader and their role in the collaboration. Cain uses description as a crutch and Heartsick is a poorer book because of it.
But while Cain isn't a fantastic writer, she does have some really strong core skills. In Heartsick there is a relationship between a cop and a serial killer that is simply fantastic. The essential connection of these two characters is a strong foundation on which the book is built on. Cain interweaves flashbacks into a story about the hunt for a serial killer and the reporter who is trying to cover it. This overused device actually works here and the stronger story, told in flashback, really does help to bolster the weaker main story. The back story is so strong that I often wondered while reading this book if it shouldn't have been the main story.
While the twists and turns in the book aren't exactly surprising, the book moves along at a near page turner pace due to the peppering of the back story. I found myself more interested in what would happen between the cop and the serial killer than who was the actual killer in the main story. Faults aside, I do think this is a descent debut novel, it gives a peek into the possibilities that Cain has as a writer and so I'll be interested to see where she goes in the sequel to this book Sweetheart.
As an aside, I did enjoy the fact that Heartsick is based in Portland!







As we plan for our new home, it's becoming clear that the table we have in our kitchen now is not going to really fit in the new 'nook' area in our 'new' home. So I've been looking at Craig's List & Ebay at 1950's formica tables.
I distinctly remember the time, sitting amongst piles of boxes deep into the late hour of the night swearing that I would never, ever, ever move again. 