A Lot Unlike Love is the story of a Sikkimese boy called Sonam who has to live in Delhi because of his job, and who thinks his life sucks, and then a lot of interesting, exciting, things happen to him, letting him grow as a character and oh wait, no, no they don’t. Nothing happens to Sonam. He mopes around and whines and wallows in self pity, and is consistently bad at his job, and the only interesting thing that happens to him is that a junkie girl he met in a chat room dies of OD, and he is briefly suspected by people of being involved in drugs too, but then everybody forgets all about it and he mopes and whines some more for like 60 more pages and then stops.
Thinley sent me this book to review and then insisted I write something about it even when I told him I was having trouble finishing it. Thinley is good at descriptions, and he can breathe life into his characters. Sonam became, in the course of the book, someone I knew personally. Unfortunately, he was the sort of person I abhor and flee from, so reading this book was torture. I’m really mad right now, because the writer, though obviously gifted, chose to take a shortcut and just say a lot of things when he had absolutely nothing to say, no story to tell, nothing to offer his readers except annoyance and boredom. Man, if I wanted to read about a thinly (not punning here) disguised you whining and brooding and reveling in melancholy for 170 pages, I would have snuck into your house and stolen your diary. And I’m pretty sure this is thinly disguised you because NOBODY else would want to delve into the mind of such a boring loser and be so interested in his myrad, boring thoughts.
Dude, Thinley, listen, you are gifted, man. Don’t waste your gift with words by duping readers into buying and reading your self indulgent depression-porn that is obviously just your journal of notes to yourself that you kept 12 years back (you dated yourself with Orkut and chat rooms). Think of a story, a real story where something happens, a story people would want to hear. Try it out on your friends and don’t hesitate to throw away drafts if people try to run away or hit you when you read it out to them. Get a better editor, I caught a minimum of three grammar mistakes in each page, and I’m no Nazi. If you are going to quote famous bits literature once in every five lines, have the confidence to not sneak in the source in footnotes, that just looks completely tarded. Create a better character, not a self pitying glob that people would want to throw things at.
Please do not smile cynically and sigh about how the mainstream rejects you again, like I imagine your protagonist would. Write another book, get a better editor, get meta critiques as you write, and then, if you feel this almost-review has done you an iota of good, send it to me.
Right. Done being mad. Will glare at screen some more and then go play with dog. Peace, man.