The Book That Killed My Will to Read

The Illiterate

Jul 6, 2025 • 4 min read

It was sometime in 2018 when my dear Auntie gifted me A Lady’s Guide to Marvels and Misadventure by Angela Bell. Tucked inside was a note that read something like (exactly like): “For the inner pubescent girl in you.”

The more I reread that sentence, the more I wonder, was that sweet? Was it a dig? Was it a coded cry for help? Unclear.

I started the book that very day. Seven years later, I finished it.
Each chapter: terrible.
Every word: painful.
Each sentence: a misery.

Two of those three are true. After this post (to my zero readers) and the backlog of related rants (linked below), I trust you’ll figure out which one isn’t.

Now that you’re caught up on the literary descent into madness, I can finally write the review this book deserves.

Just kidding.
This is the end.

. . . No really, I kid, I’ve suffered too much not to share. I’ve literally earned this right.

A Christian Pinball Machine of Nonsense

Calling this book a “rollercoaster” would be generous. It’s more like a Christian-themed pinball machine—one where the flippers are broken and the ball is just rattling around a sanctified mess of limp plotlines, poorly aged romance, and relentless scripture cosplay.

Let’s break it down:

Plot (?)

Angela Bell is a master of nothing. Unless, of course, you count writing like a 12-year-old who just discovered both ChatGPT and Jesus in the same week.

Here's the basic concept:
An old man (grandpa) recruits some rando off the street to fix watches. Then he abandons his family to go on a solo quest, which, in a shocking twist, turns out to be an elaborate scheme to coax his sexually repressed, painfully boring granddaughter out of the house.

Spoiler: it works. She goes on the journey with her mom and said street-rando, and somewhere along the way—through the power of G-rated dialogue—realizes that his voice makes her horny.

The timeline makes zero sense. At one point, the “bad guy” (her ex-fiancé, a man we’re to believe she never slept with) captures her, but somehow this has no effect on the progression of the story. Grandpa’s idiotic owl-shaped plane quest just carries on. No urgency. No consequence. Just magical plot immunity for everyone.

As for the climax—both literary and sexual—it never arrives. The closest thing to erotic tension? She gets all tingly down there after pushing a disabled man to the ground. (Yes, he’s a cripple. Grade-A romance writing, right there.)

Miserable Writing... and Jesus

Here’s where it really goes off the rails. I took notes along the way (out of survival), and the writing is so amateurish I’m genuinely not sure Angela Bell isn’t just an over-sheltered homeschooled teen with a purity ring and a ChatGPT account. Maybe she’s just discovered porn, or erotic writing, or maybe both. Again, it’s all guess work in a deseparate attempt to justify how this woman came to be so desperately pathetic.

Let’s review a few of the worst offenders:

"Lord, please help me to heed your peace more than my fear."

I swear I’m not here to bash religion. But what is this Hobby Lobby nonsense? I’m convinced this quote exists on a throw pillow in a sad Arkansas living room, being hugged by someone desperately trying to find the peace that never came.

This gem is whispered by our heroine, a woman whose spine is made of doilies, after assaulting a disabled man. “Heed your peace”? Lady, maybe just process the assault first?

If I wanted to read Hallmark theology, I’d walk into a LifeWay Christian Bookstore and buy the devotional with the most glitter on the cover.

Better version:
“Lord, please deliver me from this narrative purgatory and grant me the strength to hang myself before I have to read another chapter.”

"Lord, forgive my stubbornness. I... I can't do this alone."

Oh, honey. Not only are you the human embodiment of a wilted daisy, but now you’ve become a cliché too.

This line doesn’t develop her. In fact, it dissolves her. One minute she’s sniffing tweed jackets and fainting over peppermint breath, the next she’s begging the Almighty for strength. Pick a lane. Hopefully the one with oncoming traffic. If you’re lucky, it’ll be an H2 that runs you over to make it less painful (and guaranteed to end your misery).

"When masculinity donned the gleaming armor of protector and came to one's defense, my but was it beautiful."

First off—“my but”? Was that a typo, or are we getting biblical with the booty?

Second, this line is the literary equivalent of dry humping a knight in a youth group skit. The whole thing screams I haven’t been laid since the Great Awakening, and I’m not talking about the character.

Even if we fix the syntax, it’s still trash:

“There was something breathtaking when masculinity wrapped itself in the noble guise of protector and rose in defense. My, but it was certainly beautiful.”

Still cringe. Just less AI-trained-on-Hallmark-movie-scripts cringe.

Wrapping Up (Mercifully)

The entire premise is broken beyond repair. A grandpa in a flying owl-shaped plane. A plot where clues appear on cue like divine breadcrumbs. A kidnapping that changes nothing. And a romance that has all the heat and believability of two wet cardboard cutouts eyeing each other at a church potluck.

The religion is force-fed. The writing is criminal. The entire thing is sanctified literary malpractice.

If you enjoyed this book because it “excited” you, I assure you, you’ll find hotter and better-written content in a 1989 issue of Playgirl.

Godspeed.