I'm not actually a Nicholas Sparks fan. Yeah, I said it. Usually I find his books entirely too sappy (typed as I listen to a 90's Love Songs playlist, of course), and seriously unbelievable. And don't get me started on the movie based on his A Walk To Remember, either (that may in fact be the movie that sealed the deal on my disdain for Mandy Moore). Seriously, did you see that movie?
Message In A Bottle? Meh. Nights In Rodanthe? Vomit inducing.
I'm aware that I read many Chick Lit books that are probably much sappier than Mr. Sparks, but there's just something about his stories that bring out my bitchy side.
Other than the Notebook, of course. I think that just goes without saying.
So it's easy to imagine that when it comes to Nicholas Sparks, I tend to only notice his books if I've taken a wrong turn from the Horror section and lost my way amongst his books filled with unicorns and fucking roses.
I'm having a hard time making new friends in my new city - it's easy to be a bitter and sarcastic bitch on paper, but in real life, it doesn't win you any friends (except for other bitter and sarcastic bitches, HOLLA!). So I joined a brand new, haven;t even had the first meeting yet, book club.
And the first book they voted on reading? None other than The Lucky One
by Nicholas Sparks.
This may not end well, lovelies. This may not end well at all.