There’s something so deliciously rewarding about spending time with a character everyone else would despise, like I’ve done something naughty, and I might get caught at any moment. What is it about truly vile characters that makes me find them so compelling? Is it their general disregard for their fellow human beings? Is it their total lack of self-awareness? Is it their inability to grow or change or evolve beyond their inherent selfishness? It’s not a matter of hate-reading or loving to hate a character, it’s a gleeful feeling I can only attribute to what it was like as a child peeking through my mom’s bedroom door around Christmas, hoping to get a glimpse at one of my presents or sneaking a gift, pealing back wrapping paper, slowly, careful not to rip. And whenever someone asks what a good “hopeful” read is, I usually stare at them blankly and then furiously search on the internet for something that isn’t Fredrik Backman that I can recommend, because chances are, if they’re coming to me–a bookish professional whose literal job is to recommend new books to people–they have already read everything that man has to offer.

Whenever someone tries to pitch a book to me and one of their main selling points is about how “charming” and “lovable” and “heart-warming” the story or protagonist is, I immediately tune out and start thinking about my grocery list. There’s something about reading a book with an unlikeable main character that makes my brain light up like sparklers on the fourth of July.

The monster of elendhaven goodreads