The book took a while to settle for me after I read it; the ending (and, actually, most of the book) garnered a strange reaction from my usual reading habits.

I usually enjoy books in which I like the protagonist. Or, so I thought. I realized to say this would be to oversimplify my thought process. I like books not in which I exactly like the protagonist, but I somehow relate to them or understand them.

I did not like Hollowell's main character Birdie Baker. Nothing she does is quite likable, and her motives are not deep but rather cliche and superficial. But there's something there that feels a bit too real - she is the cliche actress trying to make it, but her depressing sadness at her everyday life, her weariness really sold her as a character to me. I may not have liked her, but I understand her.

However, what really made me love this book was Hollowell's lovely prose and dismal, descriptive portrait of Hollywood. Hollowell writes well, and with biting, cynical humor that is necessary to tell such a tale. She sets up scenes well and punctuates them with great dialogue. Can't wait for her next effort.