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