Okay, so put Dune Messiah and Battle Royale in a blender with some sprigs of fresh thought and this is the smoothie you'll get. 

I'm here for it.

There are some absolutely gorgeous lines in this book that I will probably chew on forever, but as an overall piece I feel like the prose prevented me from caring about literally anything - including the relationship it was built around. 

I also don't know if it was just me (or the fact I've been on both sides of sapphic love letters), but I feel like for the first 80% it felt abundantly clear that red was written by a man? "Max Gladstone wrote Red" lives in my google search as confirmation of this. 

A fast read, but only because the substance (though interesting) lacks depth. The biggest casualty of this was the relationship Evelyn had with Celia. I think I was supposed to feel something about it, but that was mostly frustration. Everyone but Evelyn felt hollow in her story and I understand that's a byproduct of it being told by an individual, but it strains belief that she liked or cared about the people she professed as her chosen family. I do believe that TJR was trying to do something worthwhile here here, and while it fell flat for me, at least it's less pretentious and more enjoyable than a Jodi Picoult novel.

The potato chip of literature.  

This would have been profound when I was in middle-school because it captures the angst of 'adolescent public journal' really well. 

The initial build up/first 40% was slow. But once things start clicking into place for Olivia I couldn't put it down. Love the concept, but I wish we got more of the hidden things that take us to gothic horror. I kept wanting just a little more House of Usher vibe.