“On the back of the yellow paper, in the same pen, she has written her name.  Bronwen.  Dark and pure.  The o is as flawless as a star, as open as a window.  I look at it and something in me becomes seven again - I want to crawl into that letter, right into the warm, wanting heart of my mother, before it stopped beating in a jasmine scented bath.”

The author was far far too wordy for me.  All these unneccessary flowery prose,  I didn’t like it.  Maybe some people call it descriptive.  But I found it annoying.  She described her thoughts as bursting pink and blue bubbles flying behind her as she ran.  She described her pregnant belly as a plum, ripe and bursting.  Fruity and fleshy.  Ugh.  Over the top. 

It was another book about someone writing a book.  I still don’t like that perspective. 

The story,  once you got into it,  was all right.  But it took a lot of wordy nothingness and skipping around to present and the story to get to it.

Nothing to write home about.