Review: The Inn

The Inn by James Patterson
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

There was a time when each thing I read by James Patterson was better than the last—a time when I actually looked forward to his next book and marked upcoming publication dates on my calendar. Ah, those were the days. Recently, however, it seems as if Patterson is selling his name to the highest bidder in an effort to see himself on the cover of as many volumes as possible, quality be damned. The Inn is a prime example.

First, the style here is nothing like the Patterson of days gone by. Instead, there is a vibe within these pages that is distinctly female (not such a bad thing), coupled with a romanticized approach that is at once immature and overly sentimental (a very bad thing indeed). It was as if the novel just couldn’t decide what it wanted to be, so it settled down in frustration somewhere in the middle of a gritty cop tale that had been invaded by an idealistic adolescent. The ex-con in a wheelchair, brazen and raw, is suddenly smitten by the female author prone to flowery language and over-the-top drama. The mysterious houseguest brought in by a former FBI agent is sniper perfect with a gun, doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, and then from a house drain pulls a rat—that becomes her pocket pet. I could almost hear the teenage “squee!” when the rodent (monikered Crazy) would make an appearance. These dueling sentiments tore at the fabric of the story itself and removed me from the action in a way that dulled any reader investment. The plot is full of blood and revenge and evil, then softened into palatable fluff with unicorns and rainbows. Just. No.

In the end, I was able to work my way through the pages, but not without a fair amount of head-shaking. Please, Mr. Patterson, sit down and write another winner. This is just getting old.

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