Christopher's Diary: Secrets of Foxworth by V.C. Andrews* | Rating: ★☆☆☆☆

"Nostalgia was nothing more than dissatisfaction with the present. Anything looked better than now, even harder times. It was a fantasy that people accept."

I... don't understand how this got published to begin with? Out of sheer curiosity, I've been picking up on reading the Andrew Neiderman era of V.C. Andrews books--I still can't justify calling them V.C. Andrews books when they just keep coming and are attributed to her, despite the fact that she is dead. It is quite awkward and bothersome knowing that her name has become something else entirely. A property. This fact makes my skin crawl bit by bit.

Nonetheless, there's something undeniably drug-like and naughty about V.C. Andrews books and the creations of Andrew Neiderman. Some are quite good in the way that only trashy literature can be. I mean, they are basically all a walking trigger warning but it's something you can't look away from.

Which is precisely how I took to binge reading the books from this Diaries spin-off of The Dollanganger Saga. No matter how much time has passed since the original release of V.C. Andrews' crowning glory, Flowers in the Attic, the story and its sequels still stir up conversation both in hype and disgust. For some reason, the idea of hearing Christopher's thoughts seemed appealing to me and this is basically the equivalent of fanfiction anyways, so it's rather nice to pretend.

Calling it Fanfiction, however, would be insulting to writers out there busting their ass off and creating stories out of beloved forms of fiction.

What Neiderman does to Christopher's voice is an insult and this is coming from someone who wasn't overly keen on Chris to begin with. Not only is the writing weak, it feels dodgy in a peculiar way--like the story before never happened, even if a lot of details are rehashed in a new format. Neiderman seems to lose touch with, shall we say, his inner V.C. Andrews (perhaps he should go to a rocking chair ala Audrina Adare) and can't even muster up the usual campiness and fun that comes with the name.

Overall, a terribly choppy story that was a quick read but unremarkable in every way. It begs the question: does Andrew Neiderman really have a place writing as V.C. Andrews anymore? Between this and the god-awful and unnecessary sequel to My Sweet Audrina, Whitefern, you can't help but wonder if he lost his touch. It's time to give up the V.C. Andrews name and let her legacy be her own.

Definitely a train wreck you can't look away from.