Initial Reaction Revisited: My first impression of “This Is Where It Ends” mirrored a sentiment I shared with fellow book enthusiasts: this novel feels like an attempt to tackle a narrative far exceeding the author’s storytelling capabilities, resulting in an overstuffed plot lacking cohesion and purpose.
To be unequivocally clear:
This book does not offer a nuanced or respectful depiction of the tragic events it portrays.
It fails to provide a compelling psychological exploration of the complex themes and difficult choices inherent in its narrative.
Its portrayal of diversity is not only inadequate but actively offensive, reducing characters to tokenistic representations of “otherness” rather than developing authentic identities. Frankly, the representation is deeply problematic.
This is not a recommended story for readers seeking a mature and insightful narrative on its sensitive subject matter. For a more responsible and resonant exploration of similar themes, consider Jennifer Brown’s “Hate List” instead.
Deeper Dive into the Disappointment:
Many might find themselves questioning this harsh assessment, especially given the initial buzz surrounding “This Is Where It Ends.” Indeed, my own expectations were high when I requested an advance copy, recalling a similar anticipation for Katie Stout’s “Hello, I Love You” (an experience that ultimately proved disappointing).
However, “This Is Where It Ends” presents a more intricate challenge in dissecting its flaws. The core issues are twofold: the problematic depiction of a school shooting and the superficial, often stereotypical portrayal of its characters, particularly in its attempt to showcase “diversity.”
Let’s first address the school shooting aspect, as it readily reveals the narrative’s shortcomings. “This Is Where It Ends” is an ambitious undertaking, narrated through the perspectives of multiple teenagers caught in the midst of a school shooting perpetrated by a fellow student, Tyler. Tyler’s motive is vaguely attributed to a desire to be “seen” by his peers (a simplistic and underdeveloped explanation, as we will explore further in the character analysis). The narrative structure itself is oddly paced, lacking both suspense and meaningful development. Instead of immersing the reader in the school environment and the students’ harrowing experiences, the book feels like a detached exposition, merely telling us about the “potential” and “possibilities” of these young lives before a violent character abruptly disrupts everything. This “all or nothing” approach is not only unrealistic but also avoids the intricate complexities of real-life school shooting scenarios.
The book resorts to emotional manipulation, dictating how the reader should feel rather than allowing genuine emotional connection through character development and authentic experiences of terror. Similarly, any attempt to understand Tyler’s descent into violence feels shallow and unconvincing.
The deaths within the narrative lack emotional resonance because the characters and their relationships remain underdeveloped. Jagged, inconsistent glimpses into their lives are interspersed throughout, failing to create a cohesive or engaging portrayal. This narrative distance makes it difficult to invest in the story, causing the purported 54-minute ordeal to feel unnecessarily protracted. (This is a consequence of employing a timeline structure and abruptly switching perspectives between characters with overlapping narratives and indistinguishable voices.) Furthermore, the description of Tyler’s actions during the shooting is disturbingly mechanical. While it’s conceivable that Tyler’s actions are fueled by numbness stemming from abuse, loss, and neglect, the portrayal itself should not be equally devoid of feeling. This is where Nijkamp’s execution falters. The scenario could have carried significant weight if it had been more intimately connected to the characters’ experiences. The pervasive lack of intimacy and emotional distance is a critical flaw – the narrative “tells” rather than “shows,” a fundamental misstep in this genre.
Tyler’s character is plagued by a bland and unconvincing motivation from the outset. It’s difficult to perceive him as anything beyond a stereotypical “bad guy.” From the implausible instant identification of Tyler as the shooter to the complete absence of genuine insight into his character, the narrative reduces him to a one-dimensional villain. This simplistic portrayal undermines the inherent complexity of school shootings, ignoring the crucial factors of mental health and the intricate web of relationships that can contribute to such tragic breaking points.
However, the most significant failing of “This Is Where It Ends” lies in its characterization, particularly its attempts at diversity. In a story heavily reliant on character development to explore the human impact of tragedy, the book falters spectacularly. While the inclusion of characters from diverse backgrounds – including POC characters and characters of different sexual orientations – might initially seem commendable, the actual presentation is so superficial and skewed that it ultimately detracts from, rather than enhances, the narrative. An excessive amount of narrative space is devoted to overemphasizing the characters’ “otherness,” rendering their inclusion forced, stereotypical, and, arguably, prejudiced. Simply stating repeatedly that a character loves another girl and that they are a perfect match does not create a believable or compelling relationship. Meaningful relationships require showing interactions, bringing them to life through context and genuine connection. Repetitive declarations are insufficient for developing character depth or conveying authentic experiences and emotions. Similarly, the gratuitous sprinkling of random Spanish words (the overuse of “Madre de Dios” quickly becomes grating, and the frequency with which teenagers would actually use such phrases is questionable) and the reliance on poorly conceived stereotypical mannerisms do not convincingly portray Latino/a characters.
The portrayal of Fareed’s character is particularly egregious. Defining his “otherness” through superficial references to perceived “respectful” representations of his religion and cultural practices reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of authentic diversity. Beyond these shallow markers of “otherness,” it’s difficult to discern any genuine connection between these characters. POC characters and individuals from marginalized groups (whether defined by religion, creed, sexual identity, or sexual orientation) are not mere decorative elements to be haphazardly inserted into a story under the guise of inclusivity. Diversity is not a checklist item; it is about the nuanced and respectful portrayal of characters, their self-definition, their lived experiences, and their authentic interactions with the world and the challenges they face. In all these crucial aspects, “This Is Where It Ends” delivers a profoundly mediocre and ultimately damaging representation.
My disappointment with this novel extends beyond its flawed execution to its fundamental failure to deliver on its initial promises. While the premise initially drew me in, the crucial connection to the characters and their experiences was either weak or entirely absent. This lack of meaningful engagement prevents the book from offering any enriching insight into its difficult subject matter.
In stark contrast, Jennifer Brown’s “Hate List” provides a far superior reading experience. It responsibly develops and delves into complex issues with depth and sensitivity, while simultaneously creating dimensional characters that readers can genuinely connect with, even within a difficult and disturbing narrative. Furthermore, “Hate List” achieves a clarity of character voice and perspective that “This Is Where It Ends” sorely lacks, avoiding the confusing and disorienting “head-hopping.”
“This Is Where It Ends” sadly falls short as a debut novel. It attempts to be too many things at once, ultimately failing to make the lasting and meaningful impact it ostensibly aims for.
Overall Score: 1/5 stars.
Note: This review is based on an ARC (Advanced Reader Copy) received from NetGalley and Sourcebooks FIRE.
