![]() ![]() It could be said to be “on brand” and it’s not really trying to branch out. The hard truth is that Lily and the Octopus is just okay and is likely to appeal to people who like gooey, sappy stories already. Really good books find a way to hide this, mask it or otherwise build up the world in a way that any overt motives can be overlooked, like soft paywalls at The Atlantic. After all, all books want you to feel something, think something, imagine something, and so on. It’s trying to tug at the heartstrings the same way Pixar does, though without any of the mastery (not that one can help that they aren’t Pixar). This makes reading tedious, even though the style is quick and easily consumed. Ted, for example, to the very end, can never say “tumor” and refers to it as an “octopus” every single time. ![]() It is frustrating to read the same skipping, hair-twirling voice even in more serious moments. The writing by first time novelist Steven Rowley is very sweet and very cute if perhaps monotone. As Ted goes to his therapist, on dates, to work, and hangs out with his friends, Lily’s illness ails him endlessly. The “octopus”, it’s no spoiler (it is hinted at in chapter 1 and is revealed in chapter 2), is a tumor. Ted hates to be away from Lily, and so when she develops an “octopus” on her head, Ted struggles. They spend all their time together, talk about boys and movies. He loves his dog, Lily, an equally witty, aging little dachshund. Ted, a gay man in Los Angeles, is a cute and quirky, a master of wit. ![]()
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