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The Dead Romantics: A GMA Book Club Pick (A Novel) Paperback – June 28, 2022
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The New York Times Bestseller and Good Morning America Book Club Pick!
"I LOVED this book! ...Funny, breathtaking, hopeful, and dreamy.”—Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis
A disillusioned millennial ghostwriter who, quite literally, has some ghosts of her own, has to find her way back home in this sparkling adult debut from national bestselling author Ashley Poston.
Florence Day is the ghostwriter for one of the most prolific romance authors in the industry, and she has a problem—after a terrible breakup, she no longer believes in love. It’s as good as dead.
When her new editor, a too-handsome mountain of a man, won't give her an extension on her book deadline, Florence prepares to kiss her career goodbye. But then she gets a phone call she never wanted to receive, and she must return home for the first time in a decade to help her family bury her beloved father.
For ten years, she's run from the town that never understood her, and even though she misses the sound of a warm Southern night and her eccentric, loving family and their funeral parlor, she can’t bring herself to stay. Even with her father gone, it feels like nothing in this town has changed. And she hates it.
Until she finds a ghost standing at the funeral parlor’s front door, just as broad and infuriatingly handsome as ever, and he’s just as confused about why he’s there as she is.
Romance is most certainly dead . . . but so is her new editor, and his unfinished business will have her second-guessing everything she’s ever known about love stories.
"One of the Summer's Hottest Reads"—Entertainment Weekly
- Print length368 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherBerkley
- Publication dateJune 28, 2022
- Dimensions5.47 x 0.78 x 8.24 inches
- ISBN-100593336488
- ISBN-13978-0593336489
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“We could all use a good summer ghost story, and you can't get much better than Ashley Poston's adult fiction debut.”—Entertainment Weekly
“I LOVED this book. A beautiful, poignant story, full of beautiful, poignant characters. Florence is exactly the type of lovable, endearing, relatable lead I want to fall for, and her journey through learning how to love again had me squealing, sighing, laughing. The Dead Romantics is like a beautifully crafted puzzle: at the end all the pieces fall perfectly into place, and the picture that they form is at once touching, funny, breathtaking, hopeful, and dreamy.”
—Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis
“What fun—the Emily Henry/Casey McQuiston reader (aka me) is going to gobble this book up. Smart, quick, and absolutely bubbling over with love for the genre of romance itself. Delicious.”
—Emma Straub, New York Times bestselling author of This Time Tomorrow
"The Dead Romantics was an absolute and unexpected delight. Voicy and quirky and fun; the pages will probably sparkle (but with black glitter)."
—Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners
"The Dead Romantics takes so many things I love—quirky heroines, found families, cozy small towns, fanfics, GHOSTS (!!!)—and gives them all a fresh, fun, thoroughly modern spin. This is truly a RomCom to die for!"
—Rachel Hawkins, New York Times bestselling author of Reckless Girls
“This book made me fall in love, broke my heart then reassembled it at least twice, and left me swooning. A hauntingly romantic, hilariously heartwarming story. Ashley Poston is the real deal.”
—Gwenda Bond, New York Times bestselling author of Not Your Average Hot Guy
"Poston makes her adult debut with a refreshing rom-com about love, loss, and hope....She manages to both affirm the cynics and give hope to the romantics by simultaneously embracing and subverting rom-com tropes. The sparkling dialogue makes the characters come alive—even the dead ones. Readers won’t be able to put this down."
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Romance, chaos, and complications are central components in Poston's refreshingly fun, spirited rom-coms, and The Dead Romantics is no exception. The beauty and charm of Poston's storytelling continues to make miraculous happy endings out of the messes in which ordinary people often find themselves entangled.”
—Shelf Awareness
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Ghostwriter
Every good story has a few secrets.
At least, that's what I've been told. Sometimes they're secrets about love, secrets about family, secrets about murder-some so inconsequential they barely feel like secrets at all, but monumental to the person keeping them. Every person has a secret. Every secret has a story.
And in my head, every story has a happy ending.
If I were the heroine in a story, I would tell you that I had three secrets.
One, I hadn't washed my hair in four days.
Two, my family owned a funeral home.
And three, I was the ghostwriter of mega-bestselling, critically acclaimed romance novelist Ann Nichols.
And I was sorely late for a meeting.
"Hold the door!" I shouted, bypassing the security personnel at the front desk, and sprinting toward the elevators.
"Miss!" the befuddled security guard shouted after me. "You have to check in! You can't just-"
"Florence Day! Falcon House Publishers! Call up to Erin and she'll approve me!" I tossed over my shoulder, and slid into one of the elevators, cactus in tow.
As the doors closed, a graying man in a sharp business suit eyed the plant in question.
"A gift to butter up my new editor," I told him, because I wasn't someone who just carried around small succulents wherever she went. "God knows it's not for me. I kill everything I touch, including three cactuses-cacti?-already."
The man coughed into his hand and angled himself away from me. The woman on the other side said, as if to console me, "That's lovely, dear."
Which meant that this was a terrible gift. I mean, I figured it was, but I had been stranded for too long on the platform waiting for the B train, having a small panic attack with my brother on the phone, when a little old lady with rollers in her hair tottered by selling cacti for like a dollar a pop and I bought things when I was nervous. Mainly books but-I guess now I bought houseplants, too.
The guy in the business suit got off on the twentieth floor, and the woman who held the elevator left on the twenty-seventh. I took a peek into their worlds before the doors closed again, immaculate white carpet or buffed wooden floors and glass cases where old books sat idly. There were quite a few publishers in the building, both online and in print, and there was even a newspaper on one of the floors. I could've been in the elevator with the editor for Nora Roberts for all I knew.
Whenever I came to visit the offices, I was always hyperaware of how people took one look at me-in my squeaky flats and darned hose and too-big plaid overcoat-and came to the conclusion that I was not tall enough to ride this ride.
Which . . . fair. I stood at around five foot two, and everything I wore was bought for comfort and not style. Rose, my roommate, always joked that I was an eighty-year-old in a twenty-eight-year-old body.
Sometimes I felt it.
Nothing said Netflix and chill quite like an orthopedic pillow and a wineglass of Ensure.
When the elevator doors opened onto the thirty-seventh floor, I was alone, grasping my cactus like a life vest at sea. The offices of Falcon House Publishing were pristine and white, with two fluorescent bookshelves on either side of the entryway, touting all of the bestsellers and literary masterpieces they'd published over their seventy-five-year history.
At least half of the left wall was covered in books by Ann Nichols-The Sea-Dweller's Daughter, The Forest of Dreams, The Forever House, ones my mom sighed over when I was a teenager writing my smutty Lestat fanfic. Next to them were Ann's newer books, The Probability of Love, A Rake's Guide to Getting the Girl (I was most proud of that title), and The Kiss at the Midnight Matinee. The glass reflected my face in the book covers, a pale white and sleep-deprived young woman with dirty blond hair pulled up in a messy bun and dark circles under tired brown eyes, in a colorful scarf and an oversized beige sweater that made me look like I was the guest speaker at the Yarn of the Month Club and not one of the most distinguished publishing houses in the world.
Technically, I wasn't the guest here. Ann Nichols was, and I was what everyone guessed was her lowly assistant.
And I had a meeting to get to.
I stood in the lobby awkwardly, the cactus pressed to my chest, as the dark-haired receptionist held up a finger and finished her call. Something about salad for lunch. When she finally hung up, she looked up from her screen and recognized me. "Florence!" she greeted with a bright smile. "Nice to see you up and about! How's Rose? That party last night was brutal."
I tried not to wince, thinking about Rose, my roommate, stumbling in at 3:00 a.m. "It sure was something."
"Is she still alive?"
"Rose has survived worse."
Erin laughed. Then she glanced around the lobby, as if looking for someone else. "Is Mrs. Nichols not going to make it today?"
"Oh no, she's still up in Maine, doing her . . . Maine thing."
Erin shook her head. "Gotta wonder what it's like, you know? Being the Ann Nicholses and Stephen Kings of the world."
"Must be nice," I agreed. Ann Nichols hadn't left her small little island in Maine in . . . five years? As long as I'd been ghostwriting for her, anyway.
I tugged down the multicolored scarf wrapped around my mouth and neck. While it wasn't winter anymore, New York always had one last kick of cold before spring, and that had to be today, and I was beginning to nervously sweat under my coat.
"Someday," Erin added, "you're going to tell me how you became the assistant for the Ann Nichols."
I laughed. "I've told you before-a Craigslist ad."
"I don't believe that."
I shrugged. "C'est la vie."
Erin was a few years younger than me, her Columbia University publishing certificate proudly displayed on her desk. Rose had met her a while back on a dating app, and they'd hooked up a few times, though now from what I heard they were strictly friends.
The phone began to ring on her desk. Erin said quickly, "Anyway, you can go ahead-still remember the way, yeah?"
"Absolutely."
"Perf. Good luck!" she added, and answered the call in her best customer service voice. "Good morning! You've reached Falcon House Publishers, this is Erin speaking . . ."
And I was left to my own devices.
I knew where to go, because I'd visited the old editor enough times to be able to walk the halls blindfolded. Tabitha Margraves had retired recently, at the absolute worst time, and with every step closer to the office, I held tighter on to the poor cactus.
Tabitha knew I ghostwrote for Ann. She and Ann's agent were the only ones who did-well, besides Rose, but Rose didn't count. Had Tabitha passed that nugget of secrecy to my new editor? God, I hoped so. Otherwise this was going to be an awkward first meeting.
The hallway was lined with frosted glass walls that were supposed to be used for privacy, but they provided extraordinarily little of that. I heard editors and marketing and PR shadows talking in hushed tones about acquisitions, marketing plans, contractual obligations, tours . . . reallocating money from one book's budget to another.
The things in publishing that no one ever really talked about.
Publishing was all very romantic until you found yourself in publishing. Then it was just another kind of corporate hell.
I passed a few assistant editors sitting in their square cubicles, manuscripts piled almost to the top of their half walls, looking frazzled as they ate carrots and hummus for lunch. The salads Erin ordered must not have included them, not that editorial assistants made enough to afford eating out every day. The offices were set up in a hierarchy of sorts, and the farther you went, the higher the salary. At the end of the hall, I almost didn't recognize the office. Gone were the floral wreath hanging on the door for good luck and the stickers plastered to the frosted glass privacy wall that read Try Not, Do! and Romance Isn't Dead!
For a second, I thought I'd made a wrong turn, until I recognized the intern in her small cubicle, stuffing ARCs-Advance Reader Copies, basically rough drafts of a book in paperback form-into envelopes with a harried sort of frenzy that bordered on tears.
My new editor didn't waste any time peeling off those decals and tossing the good luck wreath in the trash. I didn't know if that was a good sign-or bad.
Toward the end of her tenure at Falcon House, Tabitha Margraves and I butted heads more often than not. "Romance believes in happy endings. Tell Ann that," she would say, tongue in cheek, because, for all intents and purposes, I was Ann.
"Well Ann doesn't anymore," I would quip back, and by the time she turned in her resignation and retired down to Florida, I'm sure we were both plotting each other's demise. She still believed in love-somehow, impossibly.
And I could see right through the lie.
Love was putting up with someone for fifty years so you'd have someone to bury you when you died. I would know; my family was in the business of death.
Tabitha called me crass when I told her that.
I said I was realistic.
There was a difference.
I sat down in one of the two chairs outside of the office, the cactus in my lap, to wait and scroll through my Instagram feed. My younger sister had posted a photo of her and my hometown mayor-a golden retriever-and I felt a pang of homesickness. For the weather, the funeral parlor, my mom's amazing fried chicken.
I wondered what she was cooking tonight for dinner.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn't hear the office door open until a distinctly male voice said, "Sorry for the wait, please come in."
I bolted to my feet in surprise. Did I have the wrong office? I checked the cubicles-the brown-haired workaholic intern cramming ARCs into envelopes to the left, the HR director sobbing into his salad on the right-no, this was definitely the right office.
The man cleared his throat, impatiently waiting.
I hugged the cactus so tight to my chest, I could feel the pot beginning to creak with the pressure, and stepped into his office.
And froze.
The man in question sat in the leather chair that for thirty-five years (longer than he'd been alive, I figured) Tabitha Margraves had inhabited. The desk, once cluttered with porcelain knickknacks and pictures of her dog, was clean and tidy, everything stacked in its proper place. The desk reflected the man behind it almost perfectly: too polished, in a crisp white button-down shirt that strained at his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal rather intimidatingly sexy forearms. His black hair was swept back out of his long face and somehow accentuated his equally long nose, black square glasses perched on it, and there were very faint freckles speckled across his face: one by his right nostril, two on his cheek, one just above his thick right eyebrow. A constellation of them. For a second, I wanted to take a Sharpie and connect them to see what myth they held. The next second, I quickly came to the realization that-
Oh.
He was hot. And I'd seen him before. At publishing functions with Rose or my ex-boyfriend. I couldn't place the name, but I'd definitely run into him more than once. I held my breath, wondering if he recognized me-did he?
For a second, I thought so, because his eyes widened-just a fraction, just enough for me to suspect he knew something-before it vanished.
He cleared his throat.
"You must be Ann Nichols's assistant," he greeted without missing a beat. He stood and came around the desk to offer his hand. He was . . . enormous. So tall I felt like I'd suddenly been transported into a retelling of "Jack and the Beanstalk" where he was a very hunky beanstalk that I really, really wanted to climb-
No. No, Florence. Bad girl, I scolded myself. You do not want to climb him like a tree, because he's your new editor and therefore very, incredibly, stupendously unclimbable.
"Florence Day," I said as I accepted his hand. His almost completely enveloped mine in a strong handshake.
"Benji Andor, but you can call me Ben," he introduced.
"Florence," I repeated, shocked that I could mutter anything above a squeak.
The edges of his mouth quirked up. "So you said."
I quickly pulled my hand away, mortified. "Oh god. Right-sorry." I sat down a little too hard in the uncomfortable IKEA chair, cactus planted firmly on my knees. My cheeks were on fire, and if I could feel them, I knew that he could see I was blushing.
He sat down again and adjusted a pen on his desk. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Sorry for the wait, the subways were hell this morning. Erin keeps telling me not to take the B train and yet I am a fool that does every single time."
"Or a masochist," I added before I could stop myself.
He barked a laugh. "Maybe both."
I bit the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. He had a great laugh-the kind that was deep and throaty, like a rumble.
Oh no, this was not going as planned at all.
He liked me, and he wasn't going to like me in about five minutes. I didn't even like myself for what I was here to do-why did I think a cactus as a gift would make this easier?
He scooted his chair in and straightened a pen to be horizontal with his keyboard. Everything was neat like that in this office, and I got the very distinct feeling that he was the kind of person who, if he found a book misplaced at a bookstore, would return it to the shelf where it belonged.
Everything had its place.
He was a bullet journal guy, and I was a sticky note kind of girl.
That might've been a good thing, actually. He seemed very no-nonsense, and no-nonsense people were rarely romantic, and so I wouldn't get a pitying look when I, eventually, told him that I no longer believed in romance novels and he nodded solemnly, knowing exactly what I meant. And I would rather have that than Tabitha Margraves looking at me with those sad, dark eyes and asking, "Why don't you believe in love anymore, Florence?"
Product details
- Publisher : Berkley (June 28, 2022)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 368 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0593336488
- ISBN-13 : 978-0593336489
- Item Weight : 12.2 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.47 x 0.78 x 8.24 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #5,058 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #8 in Feel-Good Fiction
- #313 in Contemporary Women Fiction
- #711 in Romantic Comedy (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
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Honest Review of The Dead Romantics by Ashley Poston
Candi Diaz
About the author
Ashley Poston writes stories about love and friendship and ever afters. A native to South Carolina, she now lives in a small grey house with her sassy cat and too many books. You can find her on the internet, somewhere, watching cat videos and reading fan-fiction.
Tweet her at @ashposton and find out more about her at www.ashposton.com.
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The story follows Florence, a woman who ghostwrites for a famous romance author. When her own debut novel failed, Florence was worried that her career was over, but she's found success being the woman behind the scenes. At least she did, until her own love life imploded a year ago. Now Florence is on a tight deadline to produce a happily ever after, and she just doesn't have it in her. She's starting to think that love is dead, and the sudden death of her father certainly doesn't do anything to change her mind. So when Florence's sexy and stern new editor shows up on the funeral home's doorstep - as a ghost - she's not sure what to think. Florence and Ben only met briefly before he became a ghost, and neither one is sure whether Florence is supposed to be helping Ben find peace or whether he's supposed to help Florence wrap up her novel while processing her father's death. Either way, as these two near-strangers spend time together, they begin to wish that they'd gotten closer before Ben crossed to the other side.
You're probably still skeptical about whether this is a romance novel or women's fiction, because of the ghost situation. I would call this a romance novel for readers who enjoy elements of women's fiction, because the book is truly Florence's journey, and that doesn't always involve Ben. But... yeah, it's a romance too. While much of the book is emotional and full of grief (not only is Ben grappling with the fact that he's no longer amongst the living, but Florence's father has just passed away), it's also got a funny, uplifting side. It's hopeful. It's a little bit swoony. I loved the opposites attract vibes between Ben and Florence, and how they definitely wouldn't have found their way together if Ben hadn't experienced this time with her. Florence is a chaotic mess of a woman who communicates with ghosts, so that's not something the controlled, workaholic Ben would've been able to handle pre-accident. There are these tiny shifts to the dynamic along the way, and Poston does a masterful job of tying everything together perfectly. That's why this romance reader is willing to round up her rating - while I was greedy for more romance, this is the kind of book that I'm going to be reflecting on for a long time. And it had exactly the kind of ending I wanted.
Audio note: The audio was excellent! The story is told exclusively from Florence's point of view, so there is just a single narrator. But she does a great job of differentiating between the characters and giving a stellar vocal performance. I found her voice soothing and easy to listen to, perfect for the many different facets of the story. The runtime was just slightly too long for one day/sitting (10-11 hours), but I was eager to pick the book back up every time I had to set it down. It also makes an awesome workday listen, because there's little to no steam (Florence and Ben literally can't touch), and the romance is an achingly slow burn. I'm sure I would've enjoyed the book in a more traditional format as well, but the audio definitely enhanced the experience.
“you don’t ever lose the sadness, but you learn to love it because it becomes a part of you, and bit by bit, it fades. And, eventually, you’ll pick yourself back up and you’ll find that you’re okay. That you’re going to be okay. And eventually, it’ll be true”
Knowing just how much I LOVED Ashley’s Geekerella series, as soon as I heard she was debuting her adult RomCom, with speculative elements, I knew I had to read it! And she did not disappoint. Ashley Poston knows how to handle grief so beautifully in her stories. It’s real, and it’s raw, while also so hopeful. I feel like grief is often portrayed as this heavy, terrible thing that weighs us down, keeping us from life. And yes, that is a part of it. But through this story, Ashley shows us how much more to it there is. Grief is love. Love for the people who have left us—which doesn’t end when they’re gone, we take it with us. Love for the people we still have—who make it easier to get through. Ashley shows also how joy and grief can live simultaneously, and it’s ok to feel all these things at once. That death is sad, but it’s also a celebration of life.
“Love wasn’t a whisper in the quiet night. It was a yelp into the void, screaming that you were here.”
This was also, of course, at it’s core a love story. Florence and Ben are honestly just so perfect for each other! I loved how their relationship developed. Their banter and wit, their chemistry. Do you know how engaging chemistry has to be when they LITERALLY CANT TOUCH BECAUSE HE’S A GHOST?! 🤣 It is not easy to do, but Ashley made it seem easy. I was hooked on them from their first meeting, and I absolutely loved the way it ended. I will be dreaming of Ben and Florence for a long time to come.
“Worth wasn’t dependent on someone else’s love for you, or your usefulness, or what you could do for them.”
Lastly, in this story, Ashley just so eloquently put to words so many things I struggle with myself. Learning how to unlearn that your worth depends on what you can do for other people, rather than just *being*. Learning how to let others in, let others help you, let them love you. Even if you feel you don’t deserve it, because you do. Learning not to let people walk over you, or use your kindness and your love against you either. I loved all the little tidbits about the publishing industry, and the things no one likes to talk about. Authors who are amazing writers but don’t “make it” because they don’t have the right recourses. How so many writers define their worth by their success, but the only thing that matters is their words finding the people who need to hear them. I truly cannot wait to read whatever comes next to Ashley, because I know I will love it.
“…we popped champagne and played Dad’s favorite burned CD and danced through the parlors to all the good goodbyes, because endings were just new beginnings.”
Reviewed in the United States on July 1, 2022
“you don’t ever lose the sadness, but you learn to love it because it becomes a part of you, and bit by bit, it fades. And, eventually, you’ll pick yourself back up and you’ll find that you’re okay. That you’re going to be okay. And eventually, it’ll be true”
Knowing just how much I LOVED Ashley’s Geekerella series, as soon as I heard she was debuting her adult RomCom, with speculative elements, I knew I had to read it! And she did not disappoint. Ashley Poston knows how to handle grief so beautifully in her stories. It’s real, and it’s raw, while also so hopeful. I feel like grief is often portrayed as this heavy, terrible thing that weighs us down, keeping us from life. And yes, that is a part of it. But through this story, Ashley shows us how much more to it there is. Grief is love. Love for the people who have left us—which doesn’t end when they’re gone, we take it with us. Love for the people we still have—who make it easier to get through. Ashley shows also how joy and grief can live simultaneously, and it’s ok to feel all these things at once. That death is sad, but it’s also a celebration of life.
“Love wasn’t a whisper in the quiet night. It was a yelp into the void, screaming that you were here.”
This was also, of course, at it’s core a love story. Florence and Ben are honestly just so perfect for each other! I loved how their relationship developed. Their banter and wit, their chemistry. Do you know how engaging chemistry has to be when they LITERALLY CANT TOUCH BECAUSE HE’S A GHOST?! 🤣 It is not easy to do, but Ashley made it seem easy. I was hooked on them from their first meeting, and I absolutely loved the way it ended. I will be dreaming of Ben and Florence for a long time to come.
“Worth wasn’t dependent on someone else’s love for you, or your usefulness, or what you could do for them.”
Lastly, in this story, Ashley just so eloquently put to words so many things I struggle with myself. Learning how to unlearn that your worth depends on what you can do for other people, rather than just *being*. Learning how to let others in, let others help you, let them love you. Even if you feel you don’t deserve it, because you do. Learning not to let people walk over you, or use your kindness and your love against you either. I loved all the little tidbits about the publishing industry, and the things no one likes to talk about. Authors who are amazing writers but don’t “make it” because they don’t have the right recourses. How so many writers define their worth by their success, but the only thing that matters is their words finding the people who need to hear them. I truly cannot wait to read whatever comes next to Ashley, because I know I will love it.
“…we popped champagne and played Dad’s favorite burned CD and danced through the parlors to all the good goodbyes, because endings were just new beginnings.”
It was cute and funny. I found myself laughing out loud, but also crying so hard. I think the idea of it was incredibly creative: a ghostwriter who can see ghosts. I liked how the trauma was represented, as well as the year long writers block. I liked Florence and Benji’s relationship. Florence has a big growth throughout the book. The sibling relationship is also realistic as well.
I wish we learned more about Benji. There were details and questions about him brought up that were never answered. Like the book is about him finding his purpose, but he’s just a 2 dimensional character with no real development. He just laughs more over the book.
Also the writing is a little simple, reminiscent of Wattpad. There’s phrases that are dated, and make Florence ~quirky~ like “doggo” (almost stopped reading there ngl) and “zoom zoom juice”.
Overall, it was a cute emotional read, but it doesn’t feel really deep.
Top reviews from other countries
I went in blind which I recommend doing. It was magical, left me feeling emotional and I will be thinking of this one a while. ❤️
It was a nice summer read but... sadly overrated?
Ogni aspetto di questo libro è semplicemente straordinario.
Ma veniamo alla trama: la famiglia Day (composta da madre, padre e i tre figli -> Florence, Carver e Alice) è una famiglia molto eccentrica e gestisce un’attività di pompe funebri in una piccola cittadina, hanno una visione tutta loro della morte e onorano le persone che se ne vanno in un modo rispettoso e unico.
Florence Day (la protagonista) e suo padre condividono un dono speciale: entrambi possono comunicare e aiutare le anime delle persone decedute che hanno ancora qualcosa in sospeso nella vita terrena. Ahimè, quando a 13 anni Florence risolvere un caso che riguarda l’omicidio di un suo compagno di classe, grazie proprio a questo dono, viene bullizzata e isolata da alcuni suoi concittadini.
Questo fatto la spingere a lasciare casa sua non appena fosse stata accettata da un college, e a non mettervici più piede per anni e anni.
Ma un bel giorno il suo destino prende una piega inaspettata. Dopo essere diventata una ghostwriter per una scrittrice di romanzi rosa di successo, si trova ad un punto morto (!): non riesce più a scrivere scene d’amore dopo la sua ultima delusione in questo campo! Il problema è che il suo nuovo editor, l’affascinante, altissimo e muscoloso Benji Andor, non vuole concederle l’ennesima proroga che le potrebbe permettere di finire l’ultimo libro compreso nel contratto stipulato da ghostwriter!
Sta ancora cercando di digerire questo diniego, quando riceve una chiamata da sua madre che la informa che il suo amato padre è venuto a mancare.
Così Florence si ritrova a tornare in quella cittadina da cui era fuggita/l’aveva fatta fuggire, ma le sorprese non finiscono qui:
Quando Florence apre la porta delle pompe funebri di famiglia, invece di ritrovarsi davanti qualcuno venuto a portare le condoglianze a lei, ai suoi fratelli e a sua madre, non solo vi trova invece un fantasma in cerca del suo aiuto, ma proprio il fantasma di Benji, il suo nuovo editore!
Questo libro mi ha toccata nel profondo, sia per il suo modo di parlare e gestire la morte, sia perché l’ho trovato proprio un viaggio quasi spirituale. Mi ha messa in pace con il mondo.
Reviewed in Italy on June 15, 2023
Ogni aspetto di questo libro è semplicemente straordinario.
Ma veniamo alla trama: la famiglia Day (composta da madre, padre e i tre figli -> Florence, Carver e Alice) è una famiglia molto eccentrica e gestisce un’attività di pompe funebri in una piccola cittadina, hanno una visione tutta loro della morte e onorano le persone che se ne vanno in un modo rispettoso e unico.
Florence Day (la protagonista) e suo padre condividono un dono speciale: entrambi possono comunicare e aiutare le anime delle persone decedute che hanno ancora qualcosa in sospeso nella vita terrena. Ahimè, quando a 13 anni Florence risolvere un caso che riguarda l’omicidio di un suo compagno di classe, grazie proprio a questo dono, viene bullizzata e isolata da alcuni suoi concittadini.
Questo fatto la spingere a lasciare casa sua non appena fosse stata accettata da un college, e a non mettervici più piede per anni e anni.
Ma un bel giorno il suo destino prende una piega inaspettata. Dopo essere diventata una ghostwriter per una scrittrice di romanzi rosa di successo, si trova ad un punto morto (!): non riesce più a scrivere scene d’amore dopo la sua ultima delusione in questo campo! Il problema è che il suo nuovo editor, l’affascinante, altissimo e muscoloso Benji Andor, non vuole concederle l’ennesima proroga che le potrebbe permettere di finire l’ultimo libro compreso nel contratto stipulato da ghostwriter!
Sta ancora cercando di digerire questo diniego, quando riceve una chiamata da sua madre che la informa che il suo amato padre è venuto a mancare.
Così Florence si ritrova a tornare in quella cittadina da cui era fuggita/l’aveva fatta fuggire, ma le sorprese non finiscono qui:
Quando Florence apre la porta delle pompe funebri di famiglia, invece di ritrovarsi davanti qualcuno venuto a portare le condoglianze a lei, ai suoi fratelli e a sua madre, non solo vi trova invece un fantasma in cerca del suo aiuto, ma proprio il fantasma di Benji, il suo nuovo editore!
Questo libro mi ha toccata nel profondo, sia per il suo modo di parlare e gestire la morte, sia perché l’ho trovato proprio un viaggio quasi spirituale. Mi ha messa in pace con il mondo.