Tag Archives: writing

Go Gentle: I guess you do need a man

I was thrilled on starting Maria Semple’s Go Gentle to see an idea C. and I have bandied about for year – a ‘coven’ of women looking after one another – made literal. Adora, our protagonist, has cultivated an apartment building full of independent women who are committed to living their fully-realized, independent lives, while also looking out for one another (as they are and as they age). Here it is, I thought, the expression of every adult woman’s secret fantasy of a life led where the countertop is clean and self-actualization has come from a sense of worthiness owed only to existence rather than… anything or anyone else.

I suppose I should have been warier on reading the glaring plot hole that is Adora’s financially successful career as a… consulting philosopher. Cue the legit lol. But yes, of course, the extremely wealthy family (or AI company) must have a philosopher on staff to advise on the moral questions of the day. But of course.

And you know, Adora’s particular brand of Stoic self-discipline will find cultural resonance. And the plot – such as it is – invites some delightful romps through art heists and FBI raids and descriptions of billionaire mansions that we all just love to read.

There’s a not unserious section on the #metoo moment of Adora being sexually assaulted on the job and signing the NDA and taking the hush money. And were it not for the absolutely incongruous idea of Adora as a comedy writer turned Stoic philosopher (which, okay, in itself isn’t an unbelievable change, just that the novel does not offer Any Accounting for This Character Development) the section might have offered something more than a bizarre sense that this was what the book was meant to be ‘about’ and that this was ‘serious stuff’.

Only then do we land on the romance. The kind where Adora is finally – finally – complete. Because she finds a man. A man who gets her and always has and with whom she can be fully herself. And barf gag barf. Oh it’s hard. As someone who now has a partner with whom I finally and can fully be myself I don’t mean to downplay the Yes! of discovering that there is another person with whom you can love and be loved. It *is both a surprise and a joy. But it is also not the prerequisite for connection and joy. And in another book, I’d be all for this kind of celebratory character arc. But come onnnnn: in a book that opens with the promise of connection in and through women-caring-for-women to end with a woman-saved-by-the-love-of-a-man… just… ugh.

Oh and I know you’ll tell me that Adora continues to express herself as an independent woman simply “augmented” by this love. Where ‘giving in’ to love is in the titular expression “going gentle” in lieu, I suppose of a feminist “rage” that insists on independence and contemplates the idea that community might be All By Itself a worthy construct for meaning. Lol lol. And you’re right, that’s what the book tries to sell us in its closing. AND YET if ever the marketing pitch team for hetero-monogamy* is in search of a sell-piece, I offer you Go Gentle.

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Buckeye: Neighbours making neighbourhoods

Truly as I sat down to write this I got a text from a neighbour and friend who is looking after my garden while I’m away and took out my garbage bins and generally is great for helping give care. These are neighbours who also – thank god – send their children unaccompanied to the park with mine and cultivate the kind of interdependent independence that childhood thrives on – a kind of freedom that parents using GPS tracking watches and hyper-surveillance of children find suspect.

It’s a weird, and very small thread of Patrick Ryan’s Buckeye to attach to, but I was – am – so glad for the way the kids in this book grow up free to roam on bikes and until the streetlights come on and with many, many other children such that they create and cultivate micro communities of relationships. And glad that my kids have tiny opportunities for this, too.

Okay, that’s not really what this book is about and is more about when it is about – following the generation of youth who fight in and live after WWII the book explores how their childhood is shaped by their damaged or absent veteran fathers, then by their own experience fighting, and then watching their own children conscripted for Vietnam. Of course I knew this was a generation that moved through these global conflicts – but following it through the microcosm of two families – two deeply and surprisingly intertwined families – made the permeation of those conflicts into the character of individuals and their world more tangible.

It is also a book about how the mores of the time shaped sexuality and its expression, gender roles, race (ish – this is a rather lightly treated theme and pretty reduced to extremes and headlines) and (barely) class.

These pieces of ‘the times’ also inform how the characters make or don’t make their choices.

[Aside: I got distracted and called away from finishing this post and here it is a month later and I’m doing my best to recall what else I wanted to say about the book But]

One choice – or the same choice made over and over again – centers the book. How a choice for (or against) fidelity to a spouse cascades across a life; how a choice for (or against) the truth (and what exactly is the truth – is it not lying or is it proactive honesty?) explodes relationships and alters lives; how (beyond the individual) choices of global politics made (again and again) find new and familiar patterns.

I enjoyed the book, but if my, now several weeks later impression, holds, its not one that will shatter or shake you. Just a pleasant one for a cottage or a beach or – as the waning days of summer arrive – to read in half hour snippets before collapsing to sleep. Like a well told story of the realist variety where the writing is good but not distractingly good, where the characters are interesting and have an arc but are not people you spend any time outside the book thinking about, and where the plot is one you could describe over the table at a trivia night and everyone would agree that sounds interesting but is not, in the end, that interesting. It is a fine book.

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Filed under American literature, Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction, Prize Winner

Awake: A Memoir

You might be forgiven for thinking it a tad masochistic to read Awake: A Memoir which is, among other things, about the journey through divorce, at a time when I am doing the same. But! Hear me out. This is a very bad book, and there’s nothing misery loves more than silently judging something for being terrible (or in this case, publicly judging).

Jen Hatmaker writes Awake in the years after she awakes in the middle of the night to hear her then-husband on the phone with his mistress. Hatmaker had been married for twenty odd years, having wed young because of God and Christianity and Etc. In what follows we get short chapters that may or may not have been written with the intention of having them transcribed in cursive script onto a poster to hang – motivationally – on a kitchen wall. Live, laugh, love etc. We are, I think, to believe that Hatmaker’s journey from puddle of emotional ruin to self-actualized independence is one we can all travel are we simply to Focus and Let The Light Shine.

Alas, what Hatmaker spends zero attention on (at all) is the gross privilege she swims in. Oh sure, there’s a chapter where she is aghast to discover she doesn’t know a single thing about her finances or how they work, but there’s never a moment where financial insecurity poses a real threat. Implicit is the knowledge that this is a rich, white woman for whom things like the hydro bill have never properly kept her up at night. This financial security and abundance has the effect of affording (literally) Hatmaker and her children opportunities for ‘self exploration’ and ‘healing’ that include a month of (I kid you not) ‘me camp’ where Hatmaker can simply follow her bliss and #discover herself.

It would be one thing if this privilege were acknowledged and recognized as a security net for self-discovery and confidence that most divorcing women/people do not have access to, but alas, Hatmaker cheerfully narrates the memoir as if the abundance of hoteling and patio remodelling is a given.

Where I do credit her, and what I know I am learning on my own #journey (irony intended), is the incredible strength of community and the friendships that will find you when you need them most. I have been – am – overwhelmed by the care of a network of people (a constellation if you can imagine them all working in tandem to make something for me) who have surfaced – some after years of my neglected communication – to hold me, R and L up. And in this Hatmaker is right: you can pretend that you can survive something as uprooting as divorce alone, or you can submit to the humility of asking for and accepting help. And neither path is easy (how I have bristled at the realization that I alone cannot unstick my outdoor faucet or hang my own TV) but one path opens to more love.

I guess Hatmaker is also something of a Christian celebrity, and I do not envy her the microscope of judgement that must have accompanied her divorce. So while her memoir is kind of gross, I admire her willingness to write her journey publicly and to remind each this reader that shame has no place in this experience – we are all, in the end, just doing our best. Some of us happen to be doing it with enough money to spend a week in a villa.

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Filed under Book I'll Forget I Read, Non-fiction

The Correspondent: The courage to connect

I know I’m late in praising Virginia Evans’ The Correspondent. It’s on a million best-of lists and many of you have recommended it to me. What can I say. I was busy reading romantacy novels and separating from my soon-to-be-ex-husband (whee!). Fun fun.

But actually go get The Correspondent. It is fun (or at least in its formal elements) and helpful. Epistolary (that is to say, written in letters) the novel follows the aging life of Sybil through her correspondence with all manner of people.

A book in praise of human connection – not just the letter writing kind of connection, actually this is only a tiny part of it – more a book about how bravely reaching out to someone (sometimes a stranger, or a famous stranger, or a family member, or a friend, or a salesperson, or anyone) to tell them you’re thinking of them or what you like about something they did or what they’ve done to hurt you or what you admire about them or what you are reading or really anything (write about anything, Sybil says) is courage and connection and what we all need most.

The courage to connect at a time of intense loneliness for so many. The courage to say oh hey, yes, me? I was thinking of you and am just writing to say as much. And then the shock – the shock that never tires – of having this desire for connection reciprocated.

What Evans does best (I think) (and truest to my experience) is to have Sybil instruct young people in this art of courageous connection. She promises them that sometimes people will not write back (and this may be for many reasons and the arrogance of assuming it is you) and that is fine. The joy is in casting the line and that in knowing that sometimes – enough, actually – there is response, and sometimes – enough, actually – there is reciprocation and deep connection.

That these lines can – enough, actually – become thick connections that can hold us over years, through the hardest things, through the most joyous.

Sybil teaches these young people (and through them the reader) of the arrogance of assuming we can Go It Alone, or the cowardice of expecting others to come find us. We find one another when we bravely say ‘oh hey’ and then write back.

It’s a book about many other things – grief (of dead children or lost marriages or lost time), friendship, motherhood, guilt, romance, aging bodies, and trust – but for me (for me the reader right now) it was most of all this message of courage and connection. Certainly when I the individual human have needed it most, but no less, no less, when we the world most urgently do.

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