It’s time to take on the book that you all read, under your covers, late at night, freaking out about the nature of puberty, poisoned donuts, and inheritances. This is the book that we almost murder Rider for even suggesting it might be a classic of any sort. This is the book that is way too dramatic. This… is…. Flowers in the Attic.
Also discussed: will books on writing stand the test of time? Would you rather be the Assassin, or Happy to be Alive? Is F. Scott Fitzgerald a hack? And what’s a spontaneous Friday night with Julia like?

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