Zoo by James Patterson and Michael Ledwidge

One of a multitude of books by the author James Patterson, I thought this would be a welcome change from his normal police thrillers. It was, but not for the right reasons.

I found Zoo to be, in my opinion, badly written, with very little plot substance. This is the book that ended my compulsion to buy James Patterson books no matter how bad or favourably they were reviewed. The first books about Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club and Michael Bennett were very good, fast paced thrillers. With Zoo, the writing seems to me to come across as a fifty something trying to sound like an upper-class person’s view of how all teenagers speak. I found it had no sense of realism and I struggled to finish it.

I do understand that Mr Patterson is giving up-and-coming authors a chance, and I applaud him for that, but surely he should be checking to make sure the writing is up to standard and not just churning out any old rubbish to make money. As a fan I purchased every single book by James Patterson, in hardback, up until Zoo, and I feel dreadfully let down as a reader.

If you want to read his books pick up his early stuff—Along Came a Spider, Jack and Jill, Roses Are Red or Violets Are Blue—but personally I would recommend you leave this book alone.