A girl who was a couple of years younger than I was reading “Flowers in the Attic,” by V.C. Andrews when I was in high school, back in 1979. I asked her what it was about and without hesitation she said, “Evil.”

People read more back then. Young people read a lot more. I never picked the book up but always wondered why she would have that reaction. Last week, I finally ordered the book from Amazon and sat down with it. I finished it last night, reading far past my bedtime, and putting it down only after I finished. I miss that.

The story begins with a happy family of four, an older boy, his sister, and twins, a boy and a girl.

The mother takes the kids to her mother and father’s home (no, I will not tell you why) and the children have to hide from their grandfather (I won’t tell you why, stop it) and so begins the story of the children living upstairs and in the attic.

Told from the older girl’s point of view, the reader follows what happens, mentally and physically to the children as they are promised they have to hide for only a day, to only a few more days, and finally, seasons change.

Nearly the entire novel is centered in one room and the attic. Nearly four hundred pages are written about four people in two rooms. Andrews pulls this off deftly.

To call this a horror story isn’t accurate. To describe it as a coming of age book is obscene. To say there is joy to be found in the book isn’t precise, yet with all that happens to the characters, they do survive, in a manner of speaking.

Will the book leave you with a warm fuzzy feeling?

No.

Will the reader put the book down and be happy about having read the book?

Also no.

Is there any redeeming value in the story at all?

I think so. But not in any sense most people aware exists. Survival at any cost is a dangerous path for a writer. How close to the edge are you willing to drag the reader? How far is too far? How much is too much?

You get to decide that as a writer, and a reader.

Take Care,

Mike