Hey Dana Jane

Category: Book Review

  • Book Review: It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover

    I read It Ends With Us in less than three days. I didn’t want to like it, but I did. And that’s the conflict this book leaves you with—how can something so well-written, so compelling, also feel so deeply unsettling?

    Colleen Hoover doesn’t just tell a love story; she unravels one. At first, I wanted to love Ryle. He was charming, ambitious, and passionate. But then I hated him. I wanted to shake Lily, to hug her, to beg her to see what so many women struggle to recognize: that love doesn’t excuse abuse, and that abusers don’t often change.

    This book wrecked me. I haven’t personally experienced domestic violence, but I know women like Lily. I have watched some leave, and I have watched some stay. And that’s what I may never be able to fully understand—the staying. Hoover doesn’t romanticize Ryle’s actions, but the novel does what real life often does: it makes you question, makes you hope, makes you ache for the person who isn’t what you thought they were.

    While It Ends With Us is undeniably powerful, it also toes a line that made me uncomfortable. Is it fair to frame a story of domestic violence within a romance? Does it risk softening the reality of abuse? I don’t know. What I do know is that this book makes you feel everything—love, anger, frustration, devastation—and maybe that’s the point. Hoover gives us a protagonist who has to make an impossible choice, and through her, we are forced to confront the complexities of love, trauma, and survival.

    Would I recommend It Ends With Us? Yes, but with caution. It’s not an easy read, nor should it be. But it’s an important one.

  • “Daisy Jones & The Six”: A Love Affair with the Book, a Love-Hate Relationship with the Screen

    When I first picked up Daisy Jones & The Six, I felt like I’d stumbled into the backstage chaos of rock ‘n’ roll royalty. Taylor Jenkins Reid didn’t just tell a story—she handed me a ticket to a time machine, took me straight to the 1970s, and let me sip whiskey with a band that felt as real as Fleetwood Mac. It wasn’t just a book; it was an experience. So, naturally, when Amazon Prime Video announced the series adaptation, I was ready to grab my headphones and crank up the volume. But while the book had me singing its praises, the series left me humming a bittersweet tune.

    Let’s start with the good, shall we? Riley Keough. Oh. My. Daisy. If there was ever a question of who could embody the free-spirited, self-destructive, magnetic Daisy Jones, Riley answered it with a mic drop. Watching her transform into Daisy felt like watching destiny. It’s not just that she has the Presley lineage—though let’s be real, that rock ‘n’ roll DNA sure doesn’t hurt—but she brought a raw vulnerability that made Daisy leap off the screen. Riley’s voice wasn’t just soulful; it was haunted, as if Daisy’s triumphs and heartbreaks were written in the very fibers of her being.

    But (and here comes the big but), the series felt like it was missing the magic dust that made the book so unforgettable. The book’s unique interview format allowed every band member to have their say, leaving readers to piece together the truth for themselves. It was messy, unreliable, and so human. The series, by comparison, flattened that complexity. Instead of feeling like I was in the middle of a stormy creative collaboration, I felt like I was watching a glossy highlight reel. It was pretty, sure, but where was the grit? The tension? The heartbreak?

    Billy Dunne, for example, was a man torn between his love for his family and his addiction to the high of the stage. In the book, he was frustrating, flawed, and so very real. On screen? He came across more like an archetype than a fully fleshed-out character. And let’s not even start on the way certain pivotal moments—ones that had me clutching the book in agony—were rushed or glossed over entirely.

    The music, though. Ah, the music. It was good, but was it great? The songs were catchy, yes, but they didn’t quite capture the layered emotions that the book conveyed so effortlessly. I wanted to feel like Daisy and Billy’s chemistry was going to set the studio on fire. Instead, I got sparks when I was hoping for a blaze.

    And yet, despite my gripes, I don’t regret watching it. The visuals were stunning, the cast was talented, and Riley Keough alone was worth the price of admission. But while the book felt like an anthem, the series was more like a cover band. It hit the notes, but it didn’t leave me breathless.

    So, here’s my advice: Read the book first. Fall in love with the messiness of Daisy Jones & The Six on the page. Then, watch the series with tempered expectations, and let Riley Keough dazzle you. Because even if the series doesn’t fully capture the spirit of the book, Riley proves one thing for sure: Talent like that runs in the family.

    Now, excuse me while I reread the book, play “Aurora” on repeat, and pretend I’m the seventh member of the band. Rock on.

  • Naming the Darkness: How Neon Angel Resonates with My Experience

    Reading Cherie Currie’s memoir, Neon Angel, was a deeply moving experience. Cherie’s story of rising to fame with The Runaways and the darker struggles that came with it is raw, unfiltered, and deeply human. One quote in particular struck a chord with me: “Because there is a certain type of person in this world, a type that has something black inside of their soul.”

    Growing up in my dad’s bar, those words resonated on a level that’s hard to describe. As a teenager working behind the bar, the threat of sexual assault wasn’t some distant fear—it was an ever-present shadow. I was only 14 when I started bartending, and by the time I was 16, I’d seen the worst parts of human nature far too often.

    There were always those regulars who had my dad fooled. They’d come in, shake his hand, and laugh like they were the picture of respectability. To him, they were “upstanding citizens,” good for business and trustworthy. But once a few drinks loosened their tongues, their true nature came out. They’d flirt, they’d grope, and some even tried to manipulate me into being affectionate with them.

    It’s difficult to explain what it’s like to be in that position, teetering between fear and self-preservation. I never felt safe around those men, yet I also understood the stakes. My dad’s business depended on these customers, and I didn’t know how far I could push before accusations would turn into drama—or worse. At 14, 15, 16 years old, I had no idea how to navigate that fine line.

    How much do you tell your dad when you’re that young? What if he doesn’t believe you, or what if he does and things escalate? These questions swirled in my mind constantly, leaving me feeling isolated and unsure of how to protect myself. I learned to smile politely, sidestep advances, and deflect with jokes, all while keeping my guard up. Looking back, it was a survival strategy—but it shouldn’t have had to be.

    Reading Cherie’s words about the darkness inside some people’s souls brought back those memories in a wave of understanding and validation. She’d seen that darkness too, felt it closing in, and fought against it. There’s a strange kind of comfort in knowing you’re not alone, that someone else has faced the same shadows and named them for what they are.

    Her memoir reminded me of the strength it takes to confront those moments and the importance of shedding light on these experiences. When I think back to that time in my life, I feel a mix of emotions: anger, sadness, and pride. Anger at the men who thought their behavior was acceptable. Sadness for the girl I was, navigating a world where she didn’t feel protected. And pride for the woman I’ve become, who’s not afraid to speak the truth.

    Neon Angel isn’t just a story about music and fame; it’s a story about resilience. It’s about naming the darkness and refusing to let it define you. For anyone who’s ever felt that shadow looming, Cherie’s words are a reminder that you’re not alone, and that your voice has power. I wish I’d known that back then, but I’m grateful to know it now.