I have to get the terrible title out of the way first, because…anything that turns you away from this book is to be vanquished. The book is amazing: wonderful and moving and humane. And the… More
Let’s say you finish a book. Maybe it’s a book you loved and flew through. Or it was a tough slog, but darn it you made it through! In either case, though, you’re probably heading toward another book. But…do you start it right away?
This is a tricky situation, for me. Especially if it happens at night (can’t start a new book at night, because…well, you just can’t). But you also can’t just go to bed without reading at all, because how can you fall asleep then?
So what works? I lean towards the New Yorker. But I’ve heard other opinions: short stories. Cookbooks (!). Poetry?
The whole problem of it makes me think of Trollope, who apparently finished one novel, then turned the page of his notebook and began the next. Which is…not how I am.
I feel like somewhere out there is the perfect (metaphorical) grapefruit ice that does the thing you need between books: marks a sharp clear end to one, and puts you into a state of washed and receptive openness for your next one.
If you know what this would be, let us know in the comments. I’m having trouble getting from my most recently read book (Heft, very good) to my next one (The Milkman or Amnesty, I can’t decide). (Hey, if you know which one I should read, let me know!)
A friend wrote on Twitter asking where the books with the middle-aged American woman protagonists were, and it, you know, got me to thinking. I mean, first there’s the whole: what about books that move through a person’s life? In Life After Life (admittedly not American), she is 1 then 20 then 40 and so on. The whole shifting reality of age. And also: what is middle aged? If we’re thinking “I was half-way through the journey of my life” type situation, I think life expectancy puts middle aged at 41. Gulp.
But that’s also me being a bit of a jerk (imagine!), because I know what she’s getting at. A lot of novels center on women in the throes of raising (and often losing) children, or in the run-up to all that, and so the part of life when it’s not about…someone/something else seems to slip away.
There is, of course, Sue Miller, whose recent book, Monogamy, feels like it “fits the bill” exactly, except I was so looking forward to reading it, and then it left me cold.
Or maybe, Rage Against the Dying, by Becky Masterman, about an older woman detective, with lots of thrills and chases and all the things I love about detective fiction. This is the first book in a series (I love a series!), and I liked the first one. But there was (to me) something forced about the toughness, and it put me off. (I’m sounding very hard to please here.)
Besides, my guess is that the search is for a “literary” novel, though I am not fond of that term and all its unflattering implications. And of course, of course, the whole thing about literature is that you can read about anyone, any type of person, and connect.
But, too, it is a weird feeling to vanish from a culture. Do any of you know of any American novels centering on middle-aged or (gasp!) older protagonists? If you don’t, why do you think that is?
Recently I wrote about various books that I’d found comforting, and one of these was Long Bright River, part police procedural, part sister pain, with a healthy dollop of drugs and murder and family dysfunction. Not too challenging, I said, which I meant as high praise (and self-castigation—my concentration muscles are shot after a year of pandemic and political horror). But mere weeks later, I see this comment also as blithely condescending. Because, spurred by how good that books was, I asked my library what else they had, and they offered up The Unseen World. And I realized this writer, while being a joy to read, has majorly bigger fish to fry than just that.
This book is so…lovely. And strange. And sad. But no matter how sad (and I have been struggling with sad this year), it is also engaging and compelling and alive.
The liveliness comes because of all the love—not so much directly, but as though the whole novel is built over a huge underground store of love, like a hidden spring that keeps welling up. Does that sound sappy? It’s not sappy, the writing is loath to touch the love directly, but it suffuses everything, making it possible, for me at least, to read without falling apart.
Remember how everyone was flipping out about trigger warnings? (Maybe they still are?) A few of those are wanted for all of us who are more fragile now than we might “normally” be (which makes me think they are always wanted), but not for self-destructive behavior exactly, more for heartbreak, which we’re not all able to stand right now: book covers the pain of dementia, misfits, loneliness.
The very end is…not what I needed. But maybe we can talk about that when/if you read the book.
Here’s where I get to brag: I went to graduate school with Jessica Blau, and while I guess a bunch of other people can say that, I also got an advance copy of her forthcoming novel, Mary Jane, and I am here to tell you that it is a pure joy.
She sent me a copy in November, when things were dark and cold and very scary, but my husband snagged it and read it straight through, in one day. He is not an easy audience. Our bedroom sidetables are littered with books begun and abandoned. But with this, he was happy. The whole time he was reading it he was trying to get back to it, and, was just…happy.
I got to read it right after him, as was only fair, and I just…. Remember how it feels to read books that completely absorb you? Books that are light and delightful, books that bring you the happiness of eating ice cream on a hot day? This is such a book. And it’s especially pleasurable if you like to read about music, and records, and the 1970s, and humans. Oh, it’s so much fun.
So there you go: this is my gift to any interested readers. It’s not out until May, but you can order it now, I think? At your wonderful local bookstore, which will (I am sure) be more than happy to have the business. And then, when May comes, and it’s warmer out, and you can sit on the steps of your building, or in the park, or on a bench, and maybe even in an outdoor cafe (oh happy upcoming day, I hope!), and read this book, you will be glad.
It’s been a year, has it not? And now all sorts of hope looms on the horizon, and I can feel it sometimes, but also…not. All too often I am still drawn to either being in fetal position beneath my bed (if not actually then the idea of it) or watching terrible television.
The note of hope I am prepared to recognize (in a personal rather than a global way) is that I am still reading. Books that are humble and unassuming, yet also vastly comforting, like scrawny cats (see Jasper up there, needing comfort, just like all of us). Here is what has been working for me:
Long Bright River by Liz Moore. Sisters! Murder! Feelings! Yeah, when I look at the list, I am not sure why I found this book comforting, except that: I kept wanting to read it. Instead of hiding under the bed. Or watching TV.
Shuggie Bain by Douglas Stuart. Alcoholism! Feelings! Despair! Hope! More despair! Maybe more hope? I didn’t think I would make it at first, there was a lot of crazy Scottish talk, and I am, as mentioned, weary. But: apparently beneath my endless weariness there still beats a heart that can be reached, and that’s what happened. It broke apart the frozen sea within me, etc. And yes: that is still a good thing.
There are others, too—a bunch, even—but I can’t remember them now, and I am hoping to make actually posting such a heavy lift that I avoid it for another six months. So.
Are there any books that have been working for you? Will you tell me what they are in the comments? Do people still do that?