2016 is off to a bad start. In terms of books, that is.
When I picked up The Witches, I thought it would be a fun little historical fiction type of thing focusing on one woman or family involved in the Salem witch trials, something this longtime Buffy fan could certainly get into. What I got instead, and perhaps I should have read the inside cover a bit more carefully, was basically a long textbook about 17th century Massachusetts Bay Colony with a whole lot of confusing details, particularly about government and religion, and most of which I couldn’t remember from page to page because I was so unbelievably disinterested in what I was reading. (That’s why it took me so long to finish the book — I couldn’t remember what I had already read every time I picked it up again — and that’s why I can’t even recap it for this blog. I don’t remember any of it!)
Why did I continue reading it if I hated it so much, you wonder? Because I had to prove to myself that I could. I like my easy beach reads and my teen romance stories, but every now and then I need to change it up and I just had to prove to myself that my 28-year-old brain could physically get through reading something like this. That, and every now and then my optimistic side rears its ugly head and I kept hoping it would get better. It didn’t. It confused the mess out of me, and the only new thing I learned is that people in that place at that time were quite sick in the head for what they did to all those women (and some men), and even more so for trying to erase all of it from historical records.
So, now I know: The only book called “The Witches” I should read is the one by Roald Dahl. I never see a woman wearing square-toed shoes without thinking of it.