"My work may be garbage but it's good garbage." Mickey Spillane
This story deserves a Tomoview.
First off, Dagstine always has this flaccid way of depicting women. The story is first person from a female point of view. The character is whiny.
It is old, but Chris Cornell is what I need right now to help me through this angst.
Nobody talks that way. Nobody thinks that way. Oh, dear, I have such a bad case of angst! Right, dear, take two aspirin and call me in the morning.
I am so depressed. I must not have such a hopeless feeling, but I do. Maybe if I prayed. Maybe that would help.
Please God, let Michael live. Even if he has to live in a hospital and be quarantined, even if we have to have doctors and nurses every day. Let me, his only sister, have more time with him
Okay, supposedly this person is the older sibling of a twenty four year old man who just happens to have some mysterious reaction to a “toxin.”
The next day the inevitable that my family―that I―had hid from has happened.
There was never any sense of hiding from this. It’s all tell and no show. The shallowness of the writing, the poor sentence structure and the unconvincing voice of the POV makes this constant reader want to throw up.
Surprise. Surprise. Brother was a soldier. So what? All we get is a long whiny series of Mary Sue poor me’s. There is no story here. There is nothing interesting. No profoundity. And, Frankly speaking, not much intelligence.
Dagstine is a middle class boy who has never lacked for anything in his life, and he’s like a blind man trying to describe the colors of a flower.
I imagine that the worst thing that ever happened to old daggy as a stubbed toe.
Dagstine’s depiction of women in his fiction reminds me a lot of what I have read by male to female transsexuals who have a stereotype of what they believe women to be and then act the role out in their writing.