Jackie Collins Would Be Proud
It’s been two years since this fucking fantastic book came out. So I’ve had time to reflect, and be part of its journey in a sense. The owner of Outcast Press, Sebastian Vice, is an asshole and a half. He caused quite a bit of rife with me plagiarizing my review and acting as if he proclaimed Nevada as the next Jackie Collins. I was the first to say Nevada McPherson was going to blow up like Jackie Collins, and HarperCollins will be ringing her phone soon enough and making that happen. A trite thing, sure, but one that has irritated the shit out of me since someone nicely emailed me his podcast on Spotify and I could heard the evidence for myself. At the time I read this initially we were speaking, cool even. That’s how I got asked to read this. Now I will say something now I didn’t say before – I HATE THIS FUCKING BOOK COVER. It doesn’t do the novel any justice and it looks like a psychedelic wet dream of Jack Tripper after having too many mushrooms and an orgy with the Ropers in the middle of being trapped in Lifestyle condoms. This is absolutely what I imagine syphilis looking like under the microscope in the 1970s.
Don’t let the ugly ass cover turn you off from the book. Read it.
This fucking book did and still blows me the fuck away. It just gives and keeps giving. This IS one of the best books of 2021 and if you don’t think so you can coast the fuck off my site with a copy of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Niggers up your ass. This is the real fucking deal – two years later I’m still saying that. I have this on a repeat list of things to read in my downtime, and trust me when I say as critical as I am of a book that’s whistling Dixie right there. Had this book been released under Clash Books or Polis Books Nevada would be a rock star right now. Instead she’s at Outcast being an Outcast. Nothing’s wrong with loyalty but sometimes when a book is this good it needs to be with the hands that can really make it get the fuck out there and be gone, girl.
A deliciously dazzling read, Poser unlocks the world of some of the most unluckiest sons of bitches God ever put in the United States and gives us a voyeuristic read into the fucked up car crash lives of a group of people whose coincidences keep bumping into each other. There are multiple storylines running around all centering around Ambrose, a hard luck criminal that is floating on favors and lies while he sorts out a few fucked up things that have went wrong in his life. While he’s figuring it all out he befriends and falls for Jessica, the sister of a good friend co-worker who happens to be trapped in a questionable marriage with a questionable asshole with questionable tendencies who is also trying to figure her shit out. While both of them come to grips with their fucked up secrets and lies, the other cast of supporting characters tied up into their love affair are also trying to work their shit out as their reality and sanity come crashing down into each other’s lives like no tomorrow into an ending that left me on the edge of my seat wanting more.
Now that didn’t tell you much about the action on purpose. Just know these are really fucked up motherfuckers. I mean so fucked up just when you think it can’t get any worse it does. It’s a bottomless pit of fuckery they bathe in. That’s what’s so delicious about it. Nobody is in denial about their problems. It’s rich people’s problems, poor man’s worries, policeman’s blues and everything in between. Nevada spared no imagination taking us to where she wanted us to go to. This is a guilty pleasure book that definitely is in the spiritual vein of something Jackie Collins would throw Lucky Santangelo in, the patron saint of all commercial fiction fucked up behavior with a smile. Hardcore Jackie Collins fans will be holding a late night vigil at the fact that they can now indulge in the salaciousness they’ve missed since Collins’ untimely death and now fill the void with Poser.
This is right up there with Lovehead. A supremely smash hit that sadly only a few know about.