A Night with Verity: The Sleep I Happily Lost to Colleen Hoover’s Genius
By Wren Shealy (she/her)
Let’s be clear, I don’t lose sleep over just any book. My z’s are as precious as the last slice of pizza. But when it comes to Colleen Hoover, well, let’s just say she can have my pizza and my unconscious hours.
The night I picked up Verity? Oh, it was a night to remember. There I was, innocently believing I’d read a few chapters before bed. Ha! The universe must have chuckled at my naivete. Hoover’s words latched onto me like the world’s most literary leech, and I was a willing victim, drained page by page.
Verity isn’t just a book. It’s a paranormal-tinged, heart-palpitating, edge-of-your-sanity experience. It’s like Hoover looked at the standard thriller blueprint, laughed maniacally, and set it on fire. The story? It follows Lowen, a writer who uncovers the unsettling autobiography of Verity, the bestselling author she’s filling in for. Cue the eerie music and maybe a lightning strike for effect.
Now, I adore Colleen Hoover’s work — she writes novels like Michelangelo painted ceilings: effortlessly and with a touch of the divine. But Verity? It’s on a whole different level. It’s as if Hoover decided to dance on the line between reality and nightmare, and she does the tango like a pro.
I found myself reading Verity as if the pages might self-destruct in five seconds. And sleep? Who needs sleep when you’ve got a psychological landscape morphing before your eyes, characters whose depth and darkness rival the Mariana Trench, and plot twists so sharp they could carve a Thanksgiving turkey?
It was eerie, like whispering “I’m not superstitious” into a mirror at midnight. It was moving, in the way that you’re moved to question every creak of your house post-midnight read. And shell-shocking? Please. “Shell-shocking” is what this book calls Tuesday.
I finished Verity as the first light of dawn crept into my room, the final pages leaving me with a sense of satisfaction and the uneasy feeling that my bookshelf might now be haunted. And you know what? Worth it. Colleen Hoover didn’t just steal my sleep; she stole my entire concept of a predictable narrative.
So, to all my fellow readers, consider this my sleep-deprived, caffeine-fueled endorsement: If you’ve got a night to spare and don’t mind greeting the dawn with wide eyes and a slack jaw, pick up Verity. Just don’t make any plans for the next day. Trust me, you’ll need the recovery time.
