The set-up to Joe Hill's debut is certainly an original one: Jude, an ageing rockstar and hoarder of the macabre, receives an email alerting him to an online auction in which a young woman is selling the ghost of her stepfather. Jude pays the `buy now' price and adds the ghost to his collection, but soon discovers that the young woman had more on her mind than offloading an old ghost.
Hill wastes no time in getting to the crux of the story, and doesn't compromise a thing in doing so. His prose is tight and lively and his use of dialogue never falls short of excellent and at times is reminiscent of Elmore Leonard, the highest praise I can give.
Characterisations benefit hugely from the dialogue, and each of Hill's colourful cast has a distinct voice that will leave you in no doubt that they are all living and breathing people and have merely consented to Hill documenting their lives for a while.
With the fundamentals nailed down on this heart-shaped coffin lid, I allowed myself to relax. I was in safe hands. Even felt a little pang of remorse for enjoying the book so much, and felt I was two-timing Joe's old man with this new and improved younger hybrid. But it didn't take long to realise that Joe had quickly run out of nails, and the coffin lid was about to fly off to reveal a bunch of dry twigs masquerading as the delicious, maggot-munched cadaver I was hoping for.
As good as the writing is, Hill doesn't seem to have any time for suspending the reader's disbelief. Characterisations, though good superficially, lack depth and realism, and when you're trying to sell a fantasy this is unforgivable. For instance, Jude receives a phone call from his friend Danny. Danny tells Jude that he's just killed himself. Jude replies with something like a `sorry to hear that' attitude, instead of the more believable: `Do you think I'm an idiot, Danny? You're calling me on the phone!' All of Hill's characters accept these supernatural developments with similar pinches of salt.
Structure and focus is the second of the claw-hammers to go to work on that flappy lid. Long and pointless passages that add nothing to the story, meaningless plot threads that only ever lead to dead-ends. Short chapters which at first give the illusion of pace become clumsy tools for dissecting perfectly good scenes, randomly assigned way stations for a publisher's perceived attention-deficient modern reader.
Once your eyes are opened to all this, and you realise you're not is safe hands, you start to notice it isn't a coffin at all - just a soggy cardboard box that will fall apart if you touch it. And it does fall apart.
By far the weakest and most frustrating part of Heart-Shaped Box is the gargantuan array of plot holes, and it makes me angry that Joe Hill thought he could serve this half-baked pulp cake. Given the privileged platform from which Hill is afforded to pedal his wares, he should at least be fulfilling his duty as storyteller. If his dad can hold a plot together over a thousand pages, Joe has no excuses for letting a mere four-hundred-pager slip from his grasp.