Author: Rhonda Rhea & Kaley Rhea
Source: Kindle Own
My Review:
Well, this one is very different, and I am struggling with what to say.
First, it's supposed to be a Christmas story, but it's really not. There are several mentions of Christmas movies, but not much else related to Christmas. So, easily a book that can be read at anytime, not just the holidays.
Second, I loved the friendship between Harlow and her brother Ransom, and his wife, Teagan. It was over the top at times, but fun to witness. I wish it had been explained why Harlow was living with them.
Third, there is a lot of internal monologue. I would say it was almost the driving factor, and I prefer more dialogue.
I loved that Harlow was completely clueless in the romance department, and in poetry, LOL. I also liked that Jack was very awkward. They were made for each other.
Overall, I liked it.
★★★/5
Synopsis (Goodreads):
If there’s one thing Harlow Cruse hates more
than those schmaltzy Heartcast TV movies…it’s the fact that she loves
those schmaltzy Heartcast TV movies. She loves them angrily. With
popcorn. Popscorn?
As if she doesn’t get enough drama in
her day to day—directing a ministry-minded community theatre that
cranks out three shows a month and trying to keep up with her aspiring
screenwriter bestie, Teagan, a self-described “dramagician.”
When
the Heartcast Movie division announces they’ll briefly be allowing
submissions for new, original Christmas movies, Teagan is convinced this
is her time.
Roped into workshopping scenes from
Teagan’s in-progress spec script (“Christmas in Snow Prairie.” Or maybe
“Jingle Bell Kiss.” “A Twice-Baked Christmas”?) Harlow finds herself
paired with an even more reluctant co-star. Jack Bentley might have the
most Heartcast Original Movie name on the planet, but he is anything but
formulaic.
As she begins to see past assumptions she
hadn’t even realized she’d made, Harlow recognizes that all the time
she’s been rolling her eyes at the predictable dance of made-for-TV
plot-points, she’s unknowingly been holding people to the expectations
of her own formula. Her own opinions. Her own preferences. Her own
strengths.
She’d never thought of herself as
overly-judgmental. Or cynical. Or even narrow. But in the midst of
laughing her way through poorly-executed tropes and half-painted
backdrops, out-of-season sweaters and various metaphorical and literal
fires, Harlow’s eyes begin to open to the beauty of not-like-me in the
body of Christ. And to the truth that oneness was never meant to be a
synonym for sameness.
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