The first in statement of this book left me spinning, floating on a brilliant-book high, so needless to say my hopes were lying with the man on the moon. I fell, and I fell hard. The book, still good, did no do justice to its brilliant-sequel high that I had been expecting.
Firstly I'd like to say that the book was by far not the worst book I've ever read, it really wasn't even bad. Two things contributed to my hype 1. the long two-week stint I had wait in order to receive the book, 2. the brilliance of the previous book. I do however, amend Maureen Johnson for - in my opinion - almost nailing the third-person view, even if it were a barely scrap it's more than I have found to accomplish. Most of the times books written in the third-person are written in such a way because the author wants to focus less on the inner-workings of their main character and more so on the detailed whirlwind that is happening around them/it. Johnson has managed to nudge the two separate unyielding traits together slightly and for that, a star is in order.
The boyfriend cheats - excuse me 'technically cheats - on the girl, the girl is black mailed, and the new-found genuinely likable decides to make this black-mail into a road trip in the tiny car Ginny once found so blissfully comfortable. But that was back when things were not complicated, when Ginny was just a girl who road in the front seat of an incredibly tiny clown clown. But that was back when Ginny was just falling for a boy, when the boy kissed her in a graveyard, when her backpack was stolen and re-sold out of the truck of a car. This was now, and now was far less unpleasant as far as Ginny Blackthorn was concerned.
Ginny Blackthorn has applied to colleges, or she would have could she have answered that blasted question already. The question she has probably read more than her very own name and now looks at it with such a dreading distain that the question, for all she knew, could have morphed into Latin. Because how does one answer a question when the answer, the perfect answer was stolen away somewhere on the white sands of Greece. But fate is obviously on her side because just as Ginny gives up on her essay question when a dig announces a new E-mail. In it a man claims to have the last letter of Ginny's thirteen. A half scanned copy of the letter is all she needs to set her packing again.
With no rules to guide her, with the final answer just in the grasps of her finger-tips, Ginny once again boards a plane to London. Her journey weaves its way through the massive confusion of Paris, the animosity of a lovers-quarrel, to Amsterdam where windows are open for display but forbidden to look into, and finally to the rolling green fields of Ireland where a tombstone is visited, a car is laid to rest, and a kiss-with the very person Ginny never thought she'd kiss takes place. A kiss that was sweetly passionate enough to dull out the twelve ringing bells of Dublin's New Year Eve's celebration.
Through her adventures Ginny realizes that the artist in her was far more vivid than she'd imagined, that a girls first love always isn't her last, and the second, well a girl's second love is far the more grander anyhow.