Review: The Heart Goes Last: Positron Episode Four (Margaret Atwood)

A confession: there are few people I adore blindly and turn into a crazed fangirl about. Margaret Atwood is one of those people.

That said... every author must write their share of "stage directions," the necessary dull bits, the "s/he saids," the do-ing. To reference this blog, they must get Raoul into the elevator. It's not fancy but Raoul must get in the elevator. This was Positron's stage directions.

Positron is Margaret Atwood's serialized novel published through byliner. [If you don't subscribe to byliner, you should. It's fantastic.] Atwood creates another dystopian world (think: a highly structured alternative to the world of her MaddAddam trilogy). Episodes 1-3 were tense and titillating(ep. 1), frustrated (2), and hopelessly bleak (3).  Episode 4 was simply necessary.

However, Atwood's prose is, as ever, unique, sharp, and wholly entertaining. Stage directions or no, I will read anything by a writer who describes two characters as “fornicating like weasels on a griddle.”

Review: Tell The Wolves I'm Home (Carol Rifka Brunt)

I was sucked in by the title and the cover. It’s graphic and lovely and weird and yes, I judged a book by its cover. But after I’d read the synopsis, Brunt’s novel already had three strikes against it:

1. The narrator is a teenage girl. I do not like teenage narrators mainly because I do not like teenagers. They are, with a few exceptions, petulant and uninteresting creatures.

2. It is nostalgically set in the 1980s, a time I feel is far too recent for nostalgia.

3. It’s about dying and grief and AIDS and I’m tired of the literature of dying.

True to my expectations, the novel was overall disappointing.

1. Teenage Narrator Problem... Brunt required far too much suspension of disbelief from the reader; no fourteen or sixteen girl is that selfless and magnanimous. Both the narrator and her sister displayed unrealistic levels of insight and compassion to their own and others’ circumstances. They were gawky Buddhas in teenage bodies and it made the text feel forced and unrealistic. If she had written the story from the perspective of a reflective adult narrator recalling a story, this would have worked.

2. Nostalgia for the 1980s... It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. If anything, it felt more distracting than anything else. It was contextually necessary to set the novel in the 1980s but references to 80s music and fashion drew the reader’s attention away from the seriousness of the situation and leant it a kitsch that was inappropriate.

3. Death and Dying... I was pleasantly surprised. This was the one area the narrator seemed to be a fully developed character. The stigma of AIDS in the 1980s was handled with compassion and respect and illustrated beautifully how far we’ve come (which, sadly, isn’t that far)  in our understanding of the disease and our treatment of people living with AIDS.

Despite all of this, I liked the novel. Truly. There was something about the narrator and her family that was authentic in that beautifully fucked-up way “healthy” families have. Everyone loves each other but they are all essentially and profoundly alone in struggling with their own problems. Brunt’s construction of the family dynamic was brilliantly subtle and that for me that raised the book from mediocre and disappointing to “surprisingly pretty good.”

Plus, the cover and the title. Really. Take a look, it’s lovely.

Review: The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope (Rhonda Riley)

Before I started this book, I did something I normally never do: I read the reviews. It’s not only that I want to form my own opinion of a book, it’s that I don’t care if “the masses” didn’t like it. “The masses” have terrible taste in literature (see Twilight, see 50 Shades of Grey, see the entire career of Danielle Steele). If the review is from someone whose tastes and discernments parallel my own, I pay attention. But otherwise... no. But I read the reviews for one specific purpose: I wanted to figure out to what gene The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope belongs.  Science fiction? Romance? Christian literature? A brief plot synopsis as explanation of my confusion: a genderless creature (A.) is pulled from the earth, turns into a woman (Addie), falls in love with the woman (Eve) who found her, turns into a man (Adam), and lives happily ever after (sort of). However, the reviews gave me no meaningful clue; it was called a sweeping romance, it was called paranormal, it was called “somewhat biblical.” It was all those things and none of them. What it was, was brilliant.

First, the basics. Rhonda Riley can write a damn good scene. Her prose is clear and clean, never feels forced, and her pacing are impeccable. Her characters are entirely believable and when one dies, the loss is felt in appropriate proportion to their importance in the story (a reader pet peeve of mine). Arguably the novel was overpopulated but it covered forty plus years. Overpopulation is to be expected. Riley has been criticized for never answering the novel's Big Question (namely, who/what is Adam?). I say: EXACTLY. That is why the book is  genius and transcends all genre labels. This book is about Truth. Not answers. Riley never explains who/what Adam is because it is not important. Riley’s novel is a reflection on the things we don’t and can’t know about the inner lives and true selves of anyone, despite our relationship with them. Hers is a novel of truth-telling and truth-knowing and the inability to know anyone (including oneself)  fully. It is about the necessary and unnecessary lies we tell ourselves and others. The book is about trust and loving someone. It is about creating a life and learning to accept an essential otherness about one's  partner. It is about the known and the unknown in families, histories, and communities and how we navigate around these truths.

The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope unfolds slowly, revealing a family’s truth, revealing a life that has been purposefully and intentionally created. It is deceptively brilliant, subtle, and dazzling and hums with necessary and startling honesty.
In the space between pleasantly surprised and completely blindsided, I found my reaction to Rhonda Riley’s first novel. But as for my original question: what genre is this? It is truth. Just truth. Nothing else. I anxiously await Ms. Riley’s next work.

A side note for anyone who (like me) makes it a point to avoid romance or Christian fiction: fear not. It’s not that kind of romance and it certainly isn’t Christian fiction.

(mini)Reviews: A Baker's Dozen

Three months. It's a new personal best for procrastination, it is also how long it’s been since I’ve posted here and/or written about books. I have, of course, been reading but I haven't been writing about reading. And really, what’s the point of reading if you don’t think about what you’re reading? And I can’t truly think about the text unless I’m writing about it. So thus, mini-reviews of all full-length books I've read in the last three months. I promised myself I would do this and by gum! I shall!

1. The Real Cool Killers, Chester Himes
This was the second book in the Harlem Cycle (A Rage in Harlem being the first). This was a fun read. Sexy, dirty, angry, fun. It was not challenging. It didn’t blow my mind or titilate me the way A Rage in Harlem did. Disappointing.

2. The Crazy Kill, Chester Himes
Implausible, silly, and irritating. It’s like a bad riddle you don’t even care about solving. There’s a reason this was the last book of the series that I bothered to read.

3. My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me: 40 New Fairy Tales, Kate Bernheimer, ed.
It’s a book dedicated to the late, great Angela Carter. Let me say that again: it's dedicated to ANGELA MOTHERFUCKING CARTER. What’s not to love? The woman has been my literary fairy godmother since I stumbled onto The Bloody Chamber. Any book dedicated to her is alright by me. But unfortunately, that’s what this one was... just alright. Some of the stories were exceptional, others were duds, causing the collection to average out to, well, average. Although, I believe Ms. Carter would have approved of even the mediocre attempts at creating/recreating fairy tales. It’s a genre that, sadly, seems to be gasping its last breath. The world is poorer for that; we need more magic.

4. Emotional Intensity in Gifted Children, Christine Fonesca
Why? Because Zola. My seven year old daughter is a 10 all the time. Whatever the emotion is (happiness, sadness, boredom, anger, excitement)  it’s always a 10. Zola, do you want to go skydiving? OF COURSE! Zola, do you want to eat octopus and eel? ABSOLUTELY! Zola, how do you feel about beets? I HATE THEM, THEY’RE RUINING MY LIFE! It’s fun and fabulous and exhausting and horrific.
This book provided some help, mainly in the form of “yeah, unfortunately for you, your kid is totally normal. You didn’t honestly think ‘genius’ wouldn’t come with a hefty price tag, did you?” Every parent of a gifted child is probably going through the same thing I’m going through and there is a small measure of comfort in that. If nothing else, it forced me to stop trying to pathologize my daughter’s normal (for her) behavior. It also gave me ideas and resources to advocate for her education. But that's a whole other post...
Bottom line: I’m glad I read this. If anyone has a gifted child, I will recommend it to them. It wasn’t exactly life-changing but it was definitely helpful.

5. Stupid Children, Lenore Zion
Side note: by some fabulous coincidence I found myself reading Stupid Children and the previous book on gifted children at the same time.
Zion's memoir-ish novel is about a girl growing up in a cult foster home after her father tries to kill himself. Very well written, compelling, great characters, sharp prose. Definitely one of the better books I’ve read lately. And I read it old-school: paper pages, spine, cover, the whole thing. I bow to the gods of technology most of the time but it felt good to read something tangible. The tablet is so... sterile.
I finished Stupid Children and immediately ordered her collection of short stories (My Dead Pets Are Interesting).

6. Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, and the Prison of Belief, Lawrence Wright
This was recommended to me by my boss who knows I’m obsessed with cults. It’s a tell-some (as opposed to a tell-all) nonfiction book about Scientology. But it morphs about half-way through into a weird biography of Tom Cruise’s time in the church. There seemed to be far more “story” there than what was printed, like the author left out things because he didn’t want to get sued by the infamously litigation-happy church.
However, it gave a bit of historical context for the rise of Scientology and L. Ron Hubbard. I learned quite a bit about the founding of the church and their cosmology.
But the best part of the book was by far the most absurd line I’ve read in a very long time. It was said as a threat to misbehaving Scientology members and attests to the absurdity of the intersection of celebrity and religion.  “Don’t make me get Tom Cruise to come in here and punch you in the face.” It puts a smile on my face every damn time.

7. Helter Skelter, Vincent Bugliosi
Ugh. This took forever to finish. Yes, it’s a classic. Yes, it’s "one of the greatest true-crime tomes every written." But, as I’ve stated before in my complaint of the true crime genre, the middle of the book gets bogged down in the minutiae of court proceedings and police procedures. It was mind-numbing. I wanted Capote. I wanted In Cold Blood. I wanted prose and I got legalese! I wanted... something better than what I got.
That said: yes, it’s a great example of the true crime genre and much better written than almost every true crime book ever written. Sadly.
There needs to be a movement to get true crime back into the respected nonfiction world. Like a nonfiction version of what's happening with sci-fi in capital-L Literature right now. But I digress.

8. Revenge, Yoko Ogawa
A gem! A little Japanese creep-fest gem of a book. I loved it! It weirded me out and made me squidgy. Yes, squidgy. It made me have a feeling that has no translation in any language because it’s completely visceral. Read it. It’s uniquely entertaining. Get squidgy with me.

9. Outlining Your Novel, K.M. Weiland
Like most books about writing, this was 80% pep-talk, 10% literary masturbation, and 10% instruction manual. When you're looking for instruction manual, this can be frustrating. However, Wieland did present a great idea to help explore where you want your story to go: The What If List. You sit down and list literally every question that pops into your head about your plot. Everything. Even the most absurd ridiculous things. When I tried it with a few story ideas it gave new directions for all of them.
It also made me realize that I don’t think I’ll ever be the compulsively organized writer that gets everything done on a tight timeline and cranks out a finished book every 18 months. I also don’t think I’ll ever be a chaotic mess who never finishes anything. And I’m okay with that.

10. 1Q84, Haruki Murakami
Really big. Really good.
I’m not saying more because you should just read it. Seriously. Go buy it and read it. It's a substantial time commitment but it’s worth it. All the reviews that say it’s crap or over-rated or not Murakami’s best? All those people are fucking morons. True, it’s not his best, but his worst is still better than 90% of what’s out there so ignore the critics and go read some fucking Murakami already. Do it.

11. Reconstructing Amelia, Kimberly McCreight
I’m fascinated with mean girls. I have been the victim of mean girls and I was a mean girl. Fuck, I’m still kind of mean. But my meanness has been honed into a sharpened spear that is only aimed at deserving victims. I believe there is no crueler creature on earth than the 14 year old girl. Hitler, Lenin, Stalin, Pol Pot... put any of them up against a couple of junior high girls and they'd crumble.
However, McCreight's offering in the Mean Girl genre was okay. It was nonlinear (yay!) and had lots of fun epistilary sections (yay!) but the ending fell flat (no pun intended... Amelia falls off a building at the beginning of the book) and made the whole book not really about mean girls at all but about lying. Although one could argue that lying is a quintessential part of the mean girl experience. It just didn't seem true.
This was one of those “I must finish this tonight” kind of novels that you seem to really love while you’re reading it but as soon as you step away from it, you realize “yeah, it was okay, but I probably wouldn’t recommend it to anyone else.” 
Side note: the best of the mean girl genre so far is Megan Abbot's Dare Me. It's a delightfully wicked book!

12. The Interestings, Meg Wolitzer
Alternative Titles Include:
The Irritatings,
The Snarky Little Bastards Behaving Badly,
The Pretentious-es...es,
The Overly Self-Aware Overly Ironic Characters That The Reader Will End Up Hating,
The Spoiled Pseudo-Intellectual Rich Kids of New York City Written By A Spoiled Pseudo-Intellectual Rich Kid of New York City,
The Every Theme Ever In a Book In Forever With The Hope That Every Modern Lit Prof Everywhere Will Make Their Students Buy It Just To Write Crappy Theme Papers,
The Why Do I Keep Reading These Overly Hyped Mainstream Bullshit Fests They’re Always Woefully Disappointing! Even The Fucking Synopsis Irritated Me!

13. Faces of Fear, John Saul
A confession: John Saul is my literary rinse-and-spit. He’s my palate cleanser, my dry crappy cracker between wine tastings, my reset button, the Ctrl-Alt-Delete of my reader brain. It’s shameful and ugly but it’s the truth. I make no excuses. I read John Saul.
I’m Dawnelle and I’m a Saul-aholic. Hi Dawnelle.
Here’s everything you need to know about this book: Beverly Hills, plastic surgery, Frankenstein, creepy step-dad, gay dads, clueless mom, mean girls (yay!), butchering serial killer, lots of misleading details and plot holes. Also it follows the EXACT formula for every single one of his previous 35 novels... most of which I’ve read.
Until next time, Mr. Saul, thank you. My brain has been scrubbed clean and refreshed. On to better texts!

And...

14. Endless Love, Scott Spencer
[This book was so unbelievably bad that I'm saving a full review for a different post which I have titled, in my head, "In Defense of Bad Writing."] It makes John Saul look like Dostoyevsky.

Genius

We found out this week that The Bean's IQ tested in the top 99.5%. Yay! Right? Not so much. I am worried (because that's my go-to emotion with anything Bean-related). I won't start into the particulars because this will turn into a neurotic manifesto and I don't have time for that right now... I want to watch New Girl and read my book.

But then she cut off all her bangs because she couldn't figure out how else to get tree sap out of it. Later she repeatedly hit herself in the head with a pillow until she got dizzy and fell down. Why? Because she's six and that's what six year olds do.

Tonight she started planning her science fair project on electromagnetism while singing a song about the scientific method and asking me questions I had to look up the answers to. Five minutes later she was laughing so hard she almost peed herself because I was singing Chic's "Everybody Dance" chorus: "everybody dance, da-da-doo-doo, crap your pants, crap your pants" instead of "clap your hands, clap your hands."

I've always known she was smart. She started talking at nine months old and reading before she was two. But because she's silly and goofy and clutzy and fun, I assumed she was bright or moderately gifted. But genius? That looks different, right? That's serious and studious and maladjusted and unpleasantly weird, yes? Apparently not. Genius is a six year old with stupid bangs, a wicked sense of humor, and a collection of weird things she finds on the ground.

Bean is a genius. Her IQ places her in "genius range."

And she likes poop jokes and blowing bubbles and having dance parties.

I can do this. She's Bean. I've got this.

Review: We Disappear (Scott Heim)

This novel could have been so much better than it was. It was one of those cases where you finish the book and think "where the fuck was the editor? why didn't somebody cut out about 30% of this and have him rewrite some of the stronger parts?" It was unnecessarily frustrating.

Scott Heim's protagonist is the meth-addicted gay son of a woman dying of cancer. He's a tweaker, truly and fully, and Heim pulls absolutely no punches showing exactly what this means. It's unapologetically real and raw. But the reader truly cares about him. He's flawed but you want to know him, you wouldn't leave him alone in your apartment but you'd meet him for coffee any day. Heim also doesn't write a stereotype. His sexuality is only brought into focus in the most relevant ways and there is never any dramatic "coming out" moment. He doesn't use the character's sexuality as a theme, as so many authors still do (thus creating a sense of "otherness" that is disrespectful and exploitative at its core). His homosexuality is simply is part of who he is, like his brown hair or the fact that he has a sister. I found that profoundly respectful and was quite moved by it.

However the story is slightly far-fetched, there are far too many unnecessarily confusing plot twists, many of the characters read like extras from central casting, and the conclusion is a unsatisfying pathetic little sigh. But again: I think this could have been fixed in editing. Perhaps this kind of editorial sloppiness is a side effect of e-publishing and print-on-demand, perhaps not. But it has to end! Too many good books are being lost in their own "should have been cut" detritus.

Review: Dora: A Headcase (Lidia Yuknavitch)

I wasn't sure I even wanted to read this book. A retelling of Freud's quintessential case study but from the perspective of the case study herself? Freud in present day? Really? No one even offers Freudian psychotherapy anymore (and for good reason!). But after reading the first few pages, I was hooked.

Yuknavitch's Dora is a sharp-edged hilariously profane Seattle punk being raised by distant dysfunctional wealthy parents. She may be a bit more savvy than most seventeen year olds and far wittier than any seventeen year old. But you like her. She's fucked up and fabulous.

Freud is... well, Freud. Except the reader gets to experience more of Freud (truly!) than we've been privy to before. Jung's in there too in all his ethically questionable rave-attending drug-fueled goodness. Jung fits modern day so much better than Freud ever could. The relationship between Freud and Jung was the only disappointment in the novel. It's never fully explored. Yuknavitch's inclusion of it seemed perfunctory and obligatory rather than truly part of the plot.

Yuknavitch's writing is fast, funny, and good. Solidly, profoundly good. Her plots are slightly unbelievable and there a few too many coincidences, but the novel is readable and highly enjoyable. Also, Yuknavitch's construction of Dora's home life is gloriously rich for Freudian analysis and was truly a nod to Freudian theory.