Having ventured into the pages of “A Love Song For Ricki Wilde,” it’s clear this book is easily a contender for the most disappointing read of the year. Despite approaching it with an open mind, especially after being underwhelmed by the author’s previous viral work, this novel unfortunately reinforces a sense of missed potential. Driven by book club commitments and a desire to engage more thoroughly, the book was completed, albeit with significant urges to abandon it midway.
One of the most glaring issues is the pervasive pacing problem. “A Love Song For Ricki Wilde” clearly aims for grand narratives and complex developments, ambitions that are commendable in scope. However, the execution falters significantly within its roughly three hundred pages. The romantic element, central to many readers’ expectations, feels unduly delayed. Astonishingly, the love interest doesn’t truly emerge until well past the halfway point, leaving a substantial portion of the narrative feeling like protracted exposition laden with unnecessary backstory and underdeveloped character introductions.
The protagonist, Richard Wilde, who prefers to be addressed as Ricki, is introduced as the heir apparent to a vast funeral home empire. Her familial trajectory seems predetermined: inherit, franchise, and prosper in the family business. Yet, Ricki harbors a divergent dream – to cultivate beauty through a floral shop. This aspiration, surprisingly, meets with fierce opposition from her family, a conflict that strains credulity. The familial resistance to a seemingly viable, albeit different, business venture feels artificial and contrived. This lack of authenticity extends to the characters themselves, who often read as shallow sketches rather than fully realized individuals, hindering reader investment and emotional resonance. Ricki’s professional shift, triggered by her floral ambitions, leads to her convenient dismissal from the family business and a somewhat abrupt relocation from Atlanta to Harlem. This move, facilitated by a fortuitously available floral space, sets the stage for her entrepreneurial journey, aided by a cast of stereotypical “misfit friends” and a stock character elderly landlady. The narrative then meanders through the initial setup of her floral business, delaying the anticipated romantic plotline further.
The promised love interest finally materializes in the latter half of “A Love Song For Ricki Wilde,” precisely where the narrative takes a sharp and unfortunate turn for the worse. Early hints of a deeper, possibly supernatural connection are seeded through flashbacks to 1920s Harlem, suggesting a link to the present, perhaps involving the enigmatic landlady. However, the revelation of this connection marks a significant decline in the book’s quality, escalating the desire to discontinue reading. Without delving into spoiler territory, it’s safe to say that recommending this book would be a disservice to avid readers seeking engaging and well-crafted stories.
The very nomenclature within “A Love Song For Ricki Wilde” contributes to its descent into absurdity. Labeling immortal beings “Perennials,” a botanical term linked to Ricki’s profession as a florist, underscores a lack of seriousness and depth in world-building. Furthermore, the incorporation of voodoo elements is not only clumsily handled but borders on offensive in its superficial and stereotypical portrayal. The plot contrivance involving a curse, broken through an act of suicide – specifically, the suicide of the love interest’s daughter – is convoluted and morally dubious. While the narrative attempts to navigate the curse’s resolution to facilitate the romance, the ethical implications and narrative choices remain deeply problematic. The scene where Ricki and her companions embark on a quest across New York City to find spiritual practitioners to break the curse, culminating in a confrontation with a Wiccan practitioner about medical racism, feels jarringly misplaced and tonally inappropriate within the unfolding fantastical romance.
Ultimately, “A Love Song For Ricki Wilde” feels like a collection of disparate ideas hastily thrown together, resulting in a narrative that is more of a swing and a miss than a harmonious composition. In this instance, some creative concepts might have been better left unexplored, saving readers from a reading experience that ultimately disappoints and fails to resonate.
