Hieroglyphics by Jill McCorkle was beautifully written, but not for me. The story didn’t move along at a good enough clip and I found myself wishing for it to end from pretty early on. It’s told in four voices and is ultimately mostly about Lil.
Amazon: “Lil and Frank married young, launched into courtship when they bonded over how they both—suddenly, tragically— lost a parent when they were children. Over time, their marriage grew and strengthened, with each still wishing for so much more understanding of the parents they’d lost prematurely. Now, after many years in Boston, they’ve retired to North Carolina. There, Lil, determined to leave a history for their children, sifts through letters and notes and diary entries—perhaps revealing more secrets than Frank wants their children to know. Meanwhile, Frank has become obsessed with what might have been left behind at the house he lived in as a boy on the outskirts of town, where a young single mother, Shelley, is just trying to raise her son with some sense of normalcy. Frank’s repeated visits to Shelley’s house begin to trigger memories of her own family, memories that she’d hoped to keep buried. Because, after all, not all parents are ones you wish to remember.”
While I recently posted about the power of giving up on a book, I really did enjoy the way McCorkle wrote, but I was too bored with this one to recommend it.