Mitchell claims to love writing strong women, but I'm not sure she understands what "strong" means... and it should not be mutually exclusive from intelligence either! You can't be strong enough to survive in this big, harsh world without some common sense... right? RIGHT!? There were other tiny pet peeves I had with the story that brought my rating down a little. There was a side story about her losing her job that was mostly ignored, and her husband appeared to be non-existent for most of the book. Just tiny things I think if tweaked could’ve made the book a little better and more cohesive. Opening up multiple avenues of drama just to almost ignore them was a little frustrating. I enjoyed the ending though and the hope of it all, how it rounded off quite nicely. I found the writing to be a little hit and miss at times, but for the most part it served its purpose just fine. Some of the dialogue and internal monologues were a little bit cringey at times it took me out of the story, but not enough to make me want to stop reading. There was also a tiny bit of inconsistency with the coping strategies the protagonist uses at the beginning of the book seemingly disappearing a few chapters in. Pero aquello fue un desgraciado accidente, todos los testigos coincidieron, ella estaba nadando y… fue un caso de increíble mala suerte. Y usted… claro, ahora recuerdo, usted es su marido. Perdón, su… viudo, lo siento. The tension build gradually and the descriptions were really graphics and I could visualise everything happening to our MC. Blood, cursed boarding school, spirits, ghosts, Halloween, dripping taps, graveyards, psychiatric hospital, asylum, crypt, nightmares… everything was present to play with my mind.

Bobbie wondered if that's how long you truly live for - until the last person who remembers you, until the final bouquet on your grave.”

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Goldman escribe desde un lugar muy común a todos, pero, muy difícil de traducir. Escribe desde el dolor, desde la pérdida. Escribe también desde el amor, pero, un amor abstracto que está en el corazón y está en un árbol y está en unas olas que ya rompieron y de las que apenas vemos espuma que vuelve al mar.

Hay una parte brutal casi al final de las poco más de 400 páginas que te dan la certeza de porqué era necesario acompañar al narrador durante todo ese viaje. I've been saving Say Her Name as a Halloween read for god knows how many years, and I finally got around to it! Needless to say, I zoomed through this YA horror in a couple of sittings, and surprisingly it did get to me a bit!I wish I had more than 5 stars to give "Say Her Name"...I wish I could give it to everyone who has lost a loved one. I wish you'd get a copy and enjoy it for the next several days. It's a magnificient book.

Tell us you are willfully ignorant without telling us you are willfully ignorant: write a bad review of this book and say it’s “political”.Every story has some life lessons to offer you. It's one thing when an intellectual describes about the fleeting nature of life and another when a carefree high school student suddenly starts to ponder on the brevity of life! Sí. Necesito quitarme este peso de encima, decir lo que siento, lo que ella fue, y es, para mí. Necesito mantener vivo su recuerdo. Necesito saber cómo vivó Aura esos cuatro años conmigo, qué significaron para ella. Pero sobre todo necesito comprender, y el dolor es tan grande que es incomprensible, por eso son necesarias tantas palabras, y tan bellas, para iluminar incluso aquello que nos ha destrozado. No para ayudarnos a trascender o transformar esa pena en algo más sino primero y sobre todo para ayudarnos a verla. Confession time, friends: I love dead spouse stories. While I typically vomit at the trauma-porn stylings of Cathy Glass or Dave Pelzer, something about widows and widowers always draw me in. I don’t know what it is, maybe I’m trying to prepare for the worst, but I’ll always give them a read, from Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking to Rob Sheffield’s Love is a Mixtape. The form would seem to dictate the author take one of two approaches: testify their own love for the deceased, or convince the reader to love them as much as the writer did. The latter approach rarely works, which is unfortunately the one Goldman takes.