In January, I finished reading Jessie Burton’s latest novel The Confession. Having been so eager to read it, I am sad to admit that I was disappointed with it. If you’ve read some of my previous blogs, you’ll know I am a huge fan of Burton’s work and, in particular, the way she writes about women and creativity.
In fact, I loved The Muse so much that Burton herself said she wanted to laminate my review and wear it around her neck…
There was lots I did love about The Confession. Rose’s relationship, or rather relationship struggles, with her lacklustre partner Joe and his overbearing family felt very real to me. Burton paints a picture of modern-day womanhood and the perils of chasing an Instagram-worthy life in a way she hasn’t done before in The Miniaturist or The Muse.
But, personally, the plot plodded along too slowly and it took too long for my interest to be piqued. I struggled to invest in Rose, or any other character for that matter. And, at times, it felt too much like feminist theory disguised as a novel.
I look forward to whatever Burton writes next and I certainly haven’t written her off yet.
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