Sep
18
How to Murder Your Life, by Cat Marnell
There are cheesy addiction memoirs and there are hopeful addiction memoirs and there are searingly-written and breathtakingly intimate addiction memoirs and then there’s this oddball entry into the genre: a gossip-laden crackle-snap-pop that reads like a blog entry pounded out at 3 AM. I’m sure it’s tempting to dismiss Marnell as an overly privileged party girl who didn’t even have the wherewithal to get sober before spilling the story of her drug-soaked fashion magazine writer lifestyle, but I enjoyed this book from start to finish. She’s witty, remarkably self-aware, and I like her unpretentious writing style (even, I admit, the egregious use of ALL OF THE CAPS COMBINED WITH ALL OF THE EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!). There is maybe a morally-ambiguous trainwreck-ogling aspect to reading this because there’s really no redemption to be found, but I think she set out to create an entertaining, honest read and to that end, I say she was successful.
Descent, by Tim Johnston
I am a sucker for a Person Goes Missing thriller. This one’s made up of sparse yet evocative writing (I just opened a page at random: “He nosed the cigarette slowly to the wind, absorbed, until the embers flared and flew off like bright little hatchlings.”) and I felt like it kind of straddled an interesting line between a Cormac McCarthy character study and a grueling deep dive into grief and loss and the horror of the abducted. I think the end could have unfolded in all sorts of ways and he picked a hell of a good route.
The Hate U Give, by Angie Thomas
Okay. I am leery of giving anything less than a rave review to this book, because it is so beloved and I fully understand and applaud its timeliness, its importance, and its power. The issues she tackles are so clearly important, the point of view is so underrepresented. That said, I had what I can only describe as a clinical experience while reading it: I appreciated that it existed, but I was not swept up in the writing. This was one of those YA novels where I missed the A, if that makes sense — the richness of story, the maturity of narrator. That said, I’m glad I read it, even if I did not love it.
Goodbye Vitamin, by Rachel Khong
I had an interesting reaction to this one, which is a diary-format story of a woman who comes home to help care for her father, who has Alzheimer’s. It wasn’t until I was nearly done with the book — specifically, I was on page 145— that I went from feeling mostly neutral about it to falling completely and totally in love. All of the quirkiness and jumping-around snippets of thoughts and observations suddenly became incredibly endearing and tragic and I didn’t want it to end. It snuck up on me in a really surprising kind of way that had nothing to do with plot twists or unexpected revelations, so I’d say, if you start this and you’re feeling sort of ho-hum … hang in there.
My Absolute Darling, by Gabriel Tallent
I feel like there are books where the writing reaches out and carries you into the story, and there are books where the writing gets in the way of the story. Sometimes, with the latter, it can be the thing that stops you from enjoying the story at all (or maybe the story just plains sucks), but other times, the writing is really good, maybe it’s even jaw-droppingly awesome, it’s just … a whole entity unto itself. The difference between the world disappearing around you, and you being very aware that you’re reading something that someone wrote. Does that make any kind of sense? Anyway, I felt super conscious of Tallent’s style choices throughout this book, which kept me from really being 100 percent into it, but maybe that’s actually a good thing, considering the subject matter. At its heart, this is a frankly horrific tale of a twisted parent-child relationship, with dreamlike, almost lyrical descriptions of the main character’s physical world and unhappy insights into her inner world. It’s fiercely beautiful and spectacularly ugly, at the same time. Definitely not for everyone, but unique and ultimately satisfying.
My Name Is Lucy Barton, by Elizabeth Strout
This was another sneaker-upper for me. It’s a short, seemingly simple story about a woman stuck in a hospital, recovering from an illness, and her conversations with her visiting mother. The stripped-down prose wasn’t what I thought I wanted, and then somewhere along the line I felt like I got into the Less Is More vibe and really appreciated the quiet beauty of her words. This is sad and thought-provoking and as soon as I finished it I felt like I should start back at the beginning with fresh perspective.
Hunger, a Memoir of (My) Body, by Roxane Gay
Oh my goodness, this book. I think I read it in one held-breath don’t-bother-me sitting. I saw a reviewer describe her reaction to how “each secret was stripped and empowered on the page,” and I can’t think of a better description for the impact these essays have. If you are a woman, if you have ever struggled with body image, if you are human, I think you should read this. There were so many times when I’d read a sentence or paragraph and feel as though she pulled it right from my own heart.
Sep
15
At the intersection, study the situation carefully: does it seem like a person can just park, without getting gas, and go into the store? Maybe the store is only for people getting — but no, come on, I know better. I’ve stopped at plenty of these stores. But where ARE you … oh, okay, there are parking spaces along the side. But there’s some sort of utility vehicle right there, like they’re working on something at the back of the store, and that means I’ll have to walk by the workers. Shit. Okay, that’s fine. It’s not like … shit.
Okay, I’m parked. Not too close to that truck. They seem busy, anyway. But what if you’re not supposed to park here because they need this space for — nah, there would be a sign or something. Right? Although maybe it’s just obvious: like, here’s a cherry picker truck thingie, doing stuff, this is a work area. Oh fuck it. I’m getting out.
No one’s looking at me. Okay, I guess this is fine. This is a public space, it’s okay for me to be here. There’s the entrance — oh god, there’s someone heading in at the same time. We’re going to end up at the door at the same time. Walk slower. Walk slower. Stop and dig through your purse like you’re looking for something. Make a little distracted frown: where is that wallet? Okay, she’s in. Go go go go, before someone else walks up.
Quick visual sweep: two clerks behind the counter (ugh: two), one woman at the coffee station. Head for the wall of beverages, whoops, this one’s all beer, what if someone glances over at this exact moment and it looks like I’m staring at beer, shit. Milk, soda, okay, here’s the garish energy drink section. God, am I really buying a Red Bull, and it’s not even noon? Maybe I should buy something else, something a bit more wholesome, so I don’t look so trashy. A banana? Here’s a little basket with bananas in it. Yes, I’d like to be the sort of person who goes into a convenience store and buys a single piece of fruit. Just natural, whole foods for me, thanks! Honestly though I’m not going to eat that banana. It’s super green, for one thing. All I wanted was this drink, why am I circling a banana display like a zoo animal? Just PAY. Just GO.
Well, but there’s that woman from the coffee area, and now she’s in this same aisle. Too awkward to walk right by her. I’ll just walk over to the dairy … take a calm, assessing look … then go up the next aisle. Casual. Breezy. I’m just a regular person in a store, doing regular things. Normal. Certainly not hugely, painfully, freakishly aware of myself.
Okay, time to pay. Worst part. WORST. It sucks so much that it’s two young dudes, whose conversation I have to interrupt. The one who takes my money doesn’t even make eye contact, which is both a relief and an irritant. Am I even here? How can I not be here when I feel so uncomfortably present? And now I’m overcompensating: “Thanks! Have a good one!”
Have a good one. What even the hell. Retreat to the car — sweet, sweet relief — and just sit at the wheel for a while, evaluating and criticizing my actions, before sighing out a great gust of who cares, nobody cares, why do you care and driving away.
It’s so easy to joke about being this way. I mean, it’s ridiculous! It’s comical! It’s also suffocating and relentless and keeps me isolated and I hate this part of myself, which is so prevalent it’s like hating all of myself.
I have read books, done exercises, paid for hours upon hours of therapy. I have sat with the sponsor who talked earnestly about this specific character defect and how I might rid myself of it with the help of a higher power. I have considered, carefully, the fridge-magnet wisdom that life begins at the end of your comfort zone. I have, of course, spent years self-medicating all of my fucks straight out the window.
In the end, I’m tired of fighting against it. All the pep talks, the scrabbling for perspective, the effort to apply reason against the unreasonable — it’s too discouraging, trying to battle against the way my mind works. The results are always that I feel even worse about myself. It seems better to laugh when I can, breathe when I can’t, forgive myself for that which I cannot help.
-
My product review site:
[