The Book Did It Better

 

Let’s just get this out of the way: I will always choose the book over the movie.

Always.

And no, that doesn’t mean I won’t watch the movie—I will. Curiosity gets the best of me every time. But do I go into it with high expectations? Absolutely not. Because let’s face it… books are almost always better.

Why?

Because books let you live inside the story.

When you’re reading, you’re not just watching events unfold—you’re inside the character’s head. You know what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling, what they’re not saying. You catch the hesitation, the internal conflict, the tiny emotional shifts that make a scene powerful.

Movies? They try. They really do.

But even with the best actors, you’re still guessing. You’re relying on facial expressions, tone, and dialogue—and sometimes that just doesn’t cut it. There’s a whole internal world missing, and that’s where books shine.

Books give you:

• Backstory that actually matters
• Inner thoughts that explain why a character does something
• Details that build tension instead of rushing through it
• The ability to imagine everything your own way

Movies give you… a two-hour highlight reel.

My Latest “Yep, the Book Was Better” Moment

 

I recently read The Housemaid series by Freida McFadden—and honestly, I’ve read pretty much all of her books at this point. The Housemaid books? Really good. Fast-paced, twisty, exactly what you want in a psychological thriller. So naturally, when the movie came out, I thought, Alright, let’s see how this goes.

And listen… just because I prefer books doesn’t mean I won’t give the movie a fair shot. I made it about 30 minutes. That’s it. I was done.

And here’s the thing—it wasn’t even bad. The storyline followed the book pretty well. The actors weren’t terrible.

But it just… wasn’t the same.

One character in particular completely threw me off. In the book, I actually liked her in that “she’s a little unhinged but fascinating” kind of way. Freida McFadden wrote her with just the right balance—unsettling, yes, but layered.

In the movie? I couldn’t stand her. She felt over-the-top, almost exaggerated to the point where all the nuance disappeared. And maybe that was the intention—maybe we weren’t supposed to like her—but in the book, she worked. In the movie, she just felt… too much.

Photo from Entertainment Weekly

And I don’t even think it was the acting. It was the translation.

What Movies Can’t Capture: This is where adaptations struggle the most. Books build characters from the inside out. Movies build them from the outside in. So, when you take a complex, layered character and try to squeeze them into a couple of hours of screen time, something gets lost. Usually the depth. Sometimes the entire personality.

And once that connection is gone? So am I.

Maybe I’ll give the movie another shot at some point.

Maybe.

But honestly? I’d rather just reread the book. Because no matter how good the casting is…No matter how closely they follow the plot… You can’t recreate what happens in a reader’s mind.

And that’s why the book wins. Every time.

When One Book Drags… and Another Won’t Let You Breathe

So, I’ve been out of commission this week thanks to an injury. (Fun times.) Since sitting at my laptop isn’t exactly comfortable, I did what any reader would do—I picked up a book.

Actually… multiple books.

Let’s start with the first one. I won’t even mention the title, because honestly? It’s not worth it.

Now, I’m no stranger to thrillers that dive into dark territory—abusive relationships, toxic dynamics, all of that. It’s a heavy subject, but when done well, it can add depth, tension, and real emotional stakes.

This one? It missed the mark. By a lot.

We’re talking endless chapters of detailed abuse from the husband—told through the perspectives of two different wives. And while I understand the intent, it quickly crossed from impactful… to repetitive… to just plain exhausting. At some point, the story stopped moving.

There was no real buildup. No progression toward revenge, justice, or even a clear turning point. Just more of the same, over and over again.

And look—three chapters at the end? Fantastic. Suspenseful. Finally gripping. But by then, I was less on the edge of my seat and more like, well… I’ve come this far, I might as well finish it.

Was it worth it? Not really. But what else was I doing? I was stuck on the couch, so… here we are.

Then came book number two. And wow.

A Happy Marriage by A.R. Torre

 

I read this one in a matter of hours—and I mean hours. The kind of reading where you tell yourself “just one more chapter” and suddenly it’s been half the day.

This is what a thriller is supposed to feel like. The characters? Complex in the best way. Not just believable—but uncomfortably believable. The kind where you’re constantly shifting your opinions:

Who’s good?

Who’s bad?

Who can I trust?

And maybe the best part? By the end, I found myself liking characters I probably shouldn’t have liked.

That gray area? That moral tension? That’s what keeps a story alive. It didn’t drag. It didn’t repeat itself. It moved. Every chapter gave me something new, something sharper, something that made it impossible to walk away.

Bottom line: if you like suspense that actually suspends you, this one is absolutely worth your time.

When Characters Forget Who They Are

I just finished a book that, for the most part, I really liked.

The writing? Strong.

The characters? Even stronger.

Every single one—yes, even the “bad” ones—felt intentional. They had distinct energy, clear personalities, and actually behaved the way their roles in the story demanded. You know… the thing we hope for when we pick up a book.

And then there’s the main character.

Here’s where my writer brain kicked in and refused to sit quietly.

She’s a cop. Not a “maybe someday” cop. Not a “thinking about the academy” cop. No—she’s trained, nearly finished, just weeks away from being out on her own. Meaning: she knows how to assess situations, defend herself, and take someone down if necessary.

That’s been clearly established.

So explain this to me…

Why, in a high-stakes moment, does she suddenly forget all of that?

I’m not talking about fear. Fear is real. Fear belongs. Fear makes scenes better.

But training? Instinct? That doesn’t just clock out because things get scary.

Instead of thinking like a cop—even a scared one—she freezes in a way that feels completely disconnected from who she’s been built up to be. And in a later, more intense scene, she had a very real opportunity to act… and didn’t.

Instead, we got a full-on “save me” moment.

And I just sat there like…

This is where consistency matters. You can’t spend an entire book showing me a capable, trained, almost-on-the-force woman—and then, when it counts, strip her of that identity for the sake of tension.

Because here’s the thing: tension doesn’t come from making a strong character weak. It comes from forcing a strong character to struggle while still being who they are.

Let her be scared. Let her hesitate. Let her almost fail. But let her think like a cop.

That disconnect didn’t ruin the book for me—but it did pull me out of the story just enough to notice. And once you notice something like that as a writer… yeah, you don’t unsee it.

Still a solid read. Still worth it.

I just wish she had stayed who she was when it mattered most.