Smart. Serious. Snarky
I endeavor to read one hundred books again this year. For January, I have chosen eight titles that I hope will inspire motivation for better self-care. We shall see…
What books are on your list? What self-care titles have you LOVED? Which ones have you abhorred?
Why I wanted to read it: Because for Erin’s Book Challenge, one of the categories was about a detective. This series was the first to come to mind, and once upon a time I loved the way Nora Roberts wrote.
What I liked: She shifted on her sturdy legs. This was, she reminded herself, her superior. “I admire his talent.”
“Peabody, you’re admiring his chest. It’s a pretty good one, so I can’t hold it against you.”
“I wish he would,” she muttered (page 82).
Computers weren’t her forte. “Got a line on it?”
“Not yet.” With tiny tweezers, he lifted the sliver, studied it through his glasses. “But I will. I found the virus, dosed it, that’s first priority. This poor little bastard’s dead, though. When I autopsy it, we’ll see.
She had to smile. It was so like Feeney to think of his components and chips in human terms (page 137).
What sucked: Once upon a time I LOVED Nora Roberts’ writing style. So either it’s gone downhill since I was in my early twenties (which is when this particular title was published) or I’ve gotten to be a cantankerous bitch with regard to writing because of that English degree and all those writing critique groups and workshops and conferences I’ve attended. I was over this book by page 135. I pegged the culprit before the villain was identified. I marked two pages of text I liked. Just two. Glad to have gotten this one out of the way. FINISHED. DONE. Most likely will never read another Roberts novel again.
Having said that: Don’t read this crap. Just don’t.
I’m taking a break from rebuilding Picky (i.e. regurgitating ancient content whilst transferring things over from Blogger… I promise the end result with regard to format is not going to look quite like this, but the black most definitely IS a keeper… when I first built Picky, it had a black background and white text, and I LOVED it because I think it’s so much easier on the eyes) to bring yall something NEW and EXCITING! Yall know how I LOVE making lists. Once upon a time I hosted a link called Tuesday Topics… well hosting, it seems, ain’t my strong suit so I’ve put that aside (still debating on whether the Fall Film Challenge will persist… last year we only had three players). I am picking up what Jana at That Artsy Reader Girl long ago threw down with the weekly link-up: Top Ten Tuesday. This week’s theme is anticipated upcoming releases for the rest of this year.
And since Erin’s Book Challenge starts TOMORROW, what better time to talk about books??
One. The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab. So this is the only upcoming title on my list for her challenge. The main character is immortal and yet is not remembered by anyone. Doesn’t that sound INTERESTING? I’m so intrigued by this idea! I’ve not read any of her previous works so I’m a little wary there, but… that idea, yall. That’s pretty much gold, I think.
Two. Loveless by Alice Oseman. Georgia has never been in love, never kissed anyone, never even had a crush – but as a fanfic-obsessed romantic she’s sure she’ll find her person one day... Georgia ends up in her own comedy of errors, and she starts to question why love seems so easy for other people but not for her. With new terms thrown at her – asexual, aromantic – Georgia is more uncertain about her feelings than ever (from Goodreads). I’m not a hundred percent positive about this one, but some of it speaks to me, so…
Three. Watch Over Me by Nina LaCour. Mila is used to being alone. Maybe that’s why she said yes to the opportunity: living in this remote place, among the flowers and the fog and the crash of waves far below. But she hadn’t known about the ghosts (from Goodreads). I LOVE the way this woman writes. We Are Okay is one of the fastest books I’ve read. I have Hold Still on the shelves. Happy to add this to the lot.
Four. The Truth Project by Dante Medema. Seventeen-year-old Cordelia Koenig… wasn’t going to stress over the senior project all her peers were dreading—she’d just use the same find-your-roots genealogy idea that her older sister used for hers… She’d put all that time spent not worrying about the project toward getting reacquainted with former best friend and longtime crush Kodiak Jones who, conveniently, gets assigned as Cordelia’s partner… But when Cordelia’s GeneQuest results reveal that her father is not the man she thought he was but a stranger who lives thousands of miles away, Cordelia realizes she isn’t sure of anything anymore—not the mother who lied, the life she was born into or the girl staring back at her in the mirror (from Goodreads). So this little blurb piqued my interest well enough. I’m curious enough that I look forward to giving it a go. Looks like this is Medema’s debut. Here’s hoping it’ll be a good one.
Five. This Is Your Brain on Food: An Indispensable Guide to the Surprising Foods that Fight Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, OCD, ADHD, and More by Uma Naidoo. I’m pretty sure this one speaks for itself.
Six. With or Without You by Caroline Leavitt. After almost twenty years together, Stella and Simon are starting to run into problems. An up-and-coming rock musician when they first met, Simon has been clinging to dreams of fame even as the possibility of it has grown dimmer, and now that his band might finally be on the brink again, he wants to go on the road, leaving Stella behind. But when she falls into a coma on the eve of his departure, he has to make a choice between stardom and his wife—and when she wakes a different person, with an incredible artistic talent of her own, the two of them must examine what it is that they really want (from Goodreads). I’m intrigued by the adjustments these two characters are forced to make and curious to know whether they regain their equilibrium.
Seven. Not Like the Movies by Kerry Winfrey. Chloe Sanderson is an optimist, and not because her life is easy. As the sole caregiver for her father, who has early-onset Alzheimer’s, she’s pretty much responsible for everything. She has no time—or interest—in getting swept up in some dazzling romance. Not like her best friend, Annie, who literally wrote a rom-com that’s about to premiere in theaters across America . . . and happens to be inspired by Chloe and her cute but no-nonsense boss, Nick Velez. As the buzz for the movie grows, Chloe reads one too many listicles about why Nick is the perfect man, and now she can’t see him as anything but Reason #4: The scruffy-bearded hunk who’s always there when you need him. But unlike the romance Annie has written for them, Chloe isn’t so sure her own story will end in a happily-ever-after (from Random House). Not ready anything by this author, but the title caught my attention and the blurb seems interesting enough. I’m a little worried it might be too cutesy and predictable, but… maybe it will surprise me.
Eight. Death and Other Happy Endings by Melanie Cantor. The title appeals. Gal discovers she’s got basically days to live and starts truth-telling. Sign me up.
Nine. Paris Is Always a Good Idea by Jenn McKinlay. When her introverted mathematician father announces he’s getting remarried, Chelsea is forced to acknowledge that her life stopped after her mother died and that the last time she can remember being happy, in love, or enjoying her life was on her year abroad. Inspired to retrace her steps—to find Colin in Ireland, Jean Claude in France, and Marcelino in Italy—Chelsea hopes that one of these three men who stole her heart so many years ago can help her find it again. From the start of her journey nothing goes as planned, but as Chelsea reconnects with her old self, she also finds love in the very last place she expected (From Random House). So this one appeals to my wistful, what-would-happen-if, need-to-understand-EVERYTHING nature.
Ten. The End of Food Allergy by Kari Nadeau and Sloan Barnett. I’m pretty sure this one speaks for itself, too.
And yall… I’ve joined a few gifting groups on Facebook but am curious to know whom in the blogosphere with aversion to that site has an Amazon (or some other such site) wishlist they’d care to share? Because I love the idea of putting good out into the cosmos! If you’ve got a wish list, drop it like it’s hot in the comments! For those interested, I’ve got TONS of books on mine, which is partitioned because, with my parents’ health failing… I’ve had a lot of time on my hands to do some wishful thinking: linktr.ee/griffingoods. I’m eager to add the above titles to the list!
The rules: There’s only one. You can only name books you’ve actually read. So there goes a huge chunk of the literary canon. I graduated with an English degree but was never assigned anything by Dickens, Austen, either of the Brontes, none of the Russians… There was some Faulkner and Hemingway in there, but I never read more than a few paragraphs. The rest of the stuff held little to no appeal.
Unless you’re teaching, an English degree’s little more than a license to bullshit, and in five years of studies, I got really good at it. I did get around to reading Austen at some point; ain’t no way she’s making this list, but God love her for paving the way. I spent freshman and sophomore year at a small women’s college in the middle of nowhere. Sure, we read. We read smut. And as I got older I graduated to good love stories and discovered I liked writing those as much as I enjoy reading them, so yeah… there’s gonna be a lot of love on this list.
Thanks to the obsessive-compulsive streak my father gave me the list is alphabetized by author; if there’re multiple works by an author, they’re either listed by preference or series order.
Of the books I have read, these are the ones that I think are the best. Those in bold are the best of the best.
Originally published May tenth, ‘seventeen.
Why I wanted to read it: This is one of those that I always saw on display at Barnes and Nobles for the longest time, like The Fault in Our Stars, but would pick up and put down again and again. On a visit to the lovely, independent Blue Willow Bookshop in west Houston quite some time ago, I purchased an autographed copy, but it sat in my car for weeks and weeks. It finally made it into the house, only to be stashed on the bookshelves. One of the categories for Erin’s Book Challenge is mental illness in fiction, and it suited. God, did it suit.
What I liked: Theodore Finch. “What in the hell were you doing in the bell tower?”
The thing I like about Embryo is that not only is he predictable, he gets to the point. I’ve known him since sophomore year.
“I wanted to see the view.”
“Were you planning to jump off?”
“Not on pizza day. Never on pizza day, which is one of the better days of the week.” I should mention that I am a brilliant deflector. So brilliant that I could get a full scholarship to college and major in it, except why bother? I’ve already mastered the art (page 13).
It’s my experience that people are a lot more sympathetic if they can see you hurting, and for the millionth time in my life I wish for measles or smallpox or some other recognizable disease just to make it simple for me and also for them. Anything would be better than the truth: I shut down again. I went blank. One minute I was spinning, and the next minute my mind was dragging itself around in a circle, like an old, arthritic dog trying to lie down. And then I just turned off and went to sleep, but not sleep in the way you do every night. Think a long, dark sleep where you don’t dream at all (pages 15-16).
Apparently, I’m tragic and dangerous (page 26).
Someone has come in late and dropped a book and then, in picking up the book, has upset all her other books so that everything has gone tumbling. This is followed by laughter because we’re in high school… And so, because I’m used to it and because this Violet girl is about three dropped pencils away from crying, I knock one of my own books onto the floor. All eyes shift to me. I bend to pick it up and purposely send others flying — boomeranging into walls, windows, heads — and just for good measure, I tilt my chair over so I go crashing. This is followed by snickers and applause and a “freak” or two, and Mr. black wheezing. “if you’re done… Theodore… I’d like to continue.”
I right myself, right the chair, take a bow, collect my books, bow again, settle in, and smile at Violet, who is looking at me… (page 29).
Outside of class, Gabe Romero blocks my way. Amanda Monk waits just behind, hip jutted out, Joe Wyatt and Ryan Cross on either side of her. Good, easygoing, decent, nice-guy Ryan, athlete, a-student, vice president of the class. The worst thing about him is that since Kindergarten he’s known exactly who he is…
“Pick ’em up, bitch.” Roamer walks past me, knocking me in the chest — hard — with his shoulder. I want to slam his head into a locker and then reach down his throat and pull his heart out through his mouth, because the thing about being awake is that everything in you is alive and aching and making up for lost time.
But instead I count all the way to sixty, a stupid smile plastered on my stupid face. I will not get detention. I will not get expelled. I will be good. I will be quiet. I will be still…
I’ve made a promise to myself that this year will be different (pages 32-33).
Worthless. Stupid. These are the words I grew up hearing. They’re the words I try to outrun, because if I let them in, they might stay there and grow up and fill me in, until the only thing left of me is worthless stupid worthless stupid worthless stupid freak (page 63).
I sign onto Facebook, and over on Violet’s page someone from school has posted about her being a hero for saving me. There are 146 comments and 289 likes, and while I’d like to think there are this many people grateful that I’m still alive, I know better. I go to my page, which is empty except for Violet’s friend picture (pages 75).
Roamer mumbles. “Maybe you should go back up there and try again.”
“And miss the opportunity to see Indiana? No thanks.” Their eyes bore into me as I look at Violet. “Let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“No time like the present, and all that. You of all people should know we’re only guaranteed right now.”
Roamer says, “Hey asshole, why don’t you ask her boyfriend?”
I say to Roamer, “Because I’m not interested in Ryan. I’m interested in Violet” (page 87).
Mom says, “Decca, tell me what you learned today.”
Before she can answer, I say, “Actually, I’d like to go first… I learned that there is good in the world, if you look hard enough for it. I learned that not everyone is disappointing, including me… (page 104).
Water is peaceful. I am at rest… in March of 1941, after three serious breakdowns, Virginia Woolf wrote a note to her husband… “I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times… so I am doing what seems the best thing to do… you have been in every way all that anyone could be… if anybody could have saved me it would have been you” (page 106).
A voice in me says, You’re no hero. You’re a coward. You only saved them from yourself (page 161).
I can go downstairs right now and let my mom know how I’m feeling — if she’s even home — but she’ll tell me to help myself to the Advil in her purse and that I need to relax and stop getting myself worked up, because in this house there’s no such thing as being sick unless you can measure it with a thermometer under the tongue…I don’t want to hear about the cardinal again. Because the thing of it is, that cardinal was dead either way, whether he came inside or not. Maybe he knew it, and maybe that’s why he decided to crash into the glass a little harder than normal that day. He would have died in here, only slower, because that’s what happens when you’re a Finch. The marriage dies. The love dies. The people fade away. (pages 185-186).
In gym, Charlie Donahue and I stand on the baseball field, way beyond third base… he crosses his arms and frowns at me. “Is it true you almost drowned Roamer?”
“Something like that.”
“Always finish what you start, man” (page 204).
“What are you most afraid of?”
I think, I’m most afraid of just be careful. I’m most afraid of the long drop. I’m most afraid of asleep and impending weightless doom. I’m most afraid of me.“I’m not.” I take her hand, and together we leap through the air. And in that moment there’s nothing I fear except losing hold of her hand (page 221).
Labels like “bipolar” say, This is why you are the way you are. This is who you are. They explain people away as illnesses (page 272).
A string of thoughts run through my head like a song I can’t get rid of, over and over in the same order: I am broken. I am a fraud. I am impossible to love. It’s only a matter of time until Violet figures it out. You warned her. What does she want from you? You told her how it was. Bipolar disorder, my mind says, labeling itself. Bipolar, bipolar, bipolar. And then it starts all over again: I am broken. I am a fraud. I am impossible to love… (pages 277-278).
I am tired. I am avoiding seeing Violet. It’s exhausting trying to even myself out and be careful around her, so careful, like I’m picking my way through a minefield, enemy soldiers on every side. Must not let her see. I’ve told her I’ve come down with some sort of bug and don’t want to get her sick (page 281).
All I know is what I wonder: which of my feelings are real? Which of the mes is me? There is only one me I’ve ever really liked, and he was good and awake as long as he could be (page 314).
And Violet Markey.
I love the world that is my room. It’s nicer in here than out there, because in here I’m whatever I want to be. I am a brilliant writer. I can write fifty pages a day and I never run out of words. I am an accepted future student of the NYU creative writing program. I am the creator of a popular web magazine — not the one I did with Eleanor, but a new one. I am fearless. I am free. I am safe (page 52).
I look in the direction Brenda pointed and there he is. Theodore Finch leans against an SUV, hands in his pockets, like he has all the time in the world and he expects me. I think of the Virginia Woolf lines, the ones from The Waves: “Pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. And I am arch and fluent and capricious for his melancholy. He is romantic. He is here” (page 90).
He sits cross-legged, wild hair bent over one of the books, and immediately it’s as if he’s gone away and is somewhere else.
I say, “I’m still mad at you about getting me in detention.” I expect some fast reply, something flirty and flip, but instead he doesn’t look up, just reaches for my hand and keeps reading. I can feel the apology in his fingers… (page 153).
The room has been stripped bare, down to the sheets on the bed. It looks like a vacant blue hospital room, waiting to be made up for the next patient (page 290).
Just two lines across, each word on a separate piece of paper. The first line reads: long, last, nothing, time, there, make, was, to, a, him.
The second: waters, thee, go, to, it, suits, if, the, thee.
I reach for the word “nothing”. I sit cross-legged and hunched over, thinking about the words. I know I’ve heard them before, though not in this order.
I take the words from line one off the wall and start moving them around (page 332).
What sucked: not a damned thing.
Having said that: Read it. Please, please read it. I know I shared a lot from this one. I promise you, there’s so much more good than I’ve included here.
Originally published August twenty-eighth, ‘seventeen.
Why I wanted to read it: I was supposed to read it earlier in the year (or maybe late last year?) for a book club I was in but didn’t. I needed a book that began with B for Erin’s book challenge. I felt guilty for not having read it then, and my mom said she and dad had run out of gas listening to this story, they’d been so absorbed. I figured I should give it a shot.
What I liked: She had always prided herself in keeping her madness invisible and at bay; and when she could no longer fend off the voices that grew inside her, their evil set to a chaos in a minor key, her breakdown enfolded upon her, like a tarpaulin pulled across that part of her brain where once there had been light (page 3).
“I guess you think I should hire a marching band to welcome you back,” my father, Judge Johnson Hagood McCall, said to me.
“It’s great to see you too, Dad,” I said.
“Don’t look at me that way,” my father ordered. “I refuse to accept your pity.”
“Jesus Christ,” Tee whispered.
“Say hi to Jack, Dad,” Dupree suggested. “It’s a question of manners.”
“Hi, Jack,” my father said, mugging, his words soft around the edges. “Great to have you back, Jack. Thanks for not calling, Jack. For not keeping in touch.”
“I tried to call you a couple of times, Dad,” I said. “But it’s hard talking to a man after he’s passed out.”
“Are you implying that I have a drinking problem?” the judge said, rising up to his full length, his head thrown back.
“An outrage,” Tee said happily.
Dallas said, “Like saying Noah had a problem with the weather, Pop.”
“Drink some coffee,” Dupree offered. “Sober up before you go see Mom.”
My father looked at me, then sat down on a chair, falling the last several inches.
“You heard that your mother deserted me for a much younger man, I suppose,” he said to me.
Dallas said, “The doc’s a whole year younger than Pop here.”
“There’s no need for your editorial comments, Dallas,” the judge said. “I am merely stating the facts. His money blinded her. Your mother always had a weakness for material things and ill-gotten pelf.”
“Pelf?” Tee said. “Mom likes pelf? I don’t even know what that is.”
“That’s why you’re only a public school teacher in the state that ranks last educationally in this great nation,” the judge said. “They allow you to teach other idiots, I am told.”
“My kids are autistic, Dad,” said Tee.
“Aren’t you glad Dad’s drinking again?” Dupree asked me, trying to divert our attention away from Tee. “I never feel closer to the old boy than when he’s going through delirium tremens.”
“I’m not drunk,” the judge said. “I’m on medication.”
“Dr. Jim Beam,” Dallas said. “Still practicing after all these years.”
“I have an inner-ear infection,” the judge insisted. “The medicine affects my sense of balance.”
“That infection must be hell,” Tee said. “it’s been around for thirty years or more.”
“All of you were in league with your mother against me,” said the judge, closing his eyes.
“Got that right,” Tee said (pages 130-131).
“C’mon, Mom,” Tee yelled by the window. “Give ’em hell, girl.”
“You’re in a hospital,” Dallas said, “Not a sports bar.”
“Thanks for that timely bulletin, bro,” Tee said. “And get ready for a full-contact scrimmage. John Hardin’s tying up his boat down at the dock.
“Help us, Jesus,” Dallas said.
“Worse than it used to be?” I asked Dupree.
“Still a bit off,” Dupree said. “But he’s become a little dangerous. He spooks easily.”
“Now, for the enjoyment of our live audience, ladies and gentlemen, we present madness,” Dallas said.
“First death,” Tee said, “then drunkenness.”
“Calm down, Tee,” Dupree suggested. “Don’t let him see that you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Tee said. “I’m scared shitless.”
“He hasn’t had his shot this month,” Dupree said. “He’s fine after he’s had his shot.”
There was a tap on the window and John Hardin made a motion for Tee to unlock it. Tee made a motion with his arm that John Hardin go around to one of the doorways and John Hardin answered him by selecting a brick that formed the border of a flower garden near a memorial fountain (page 133).
Dupree said, “Let’s go together to get your shot.”
John Hardin’s eyes blazed as he spoke. “I hate you the most, Dupree. You’re number one on my list. Then comes Jack. Precious Jack, the firstborn son who thinks he was born in a manger. Then comes Dallas, who think he’s some kind of genius when he actually doesn’t know shit…”
“I’ll go with you,” Tee said to John Hardin. “You and I’ll go with Dupree to get that shot.”
“The only cure that’d help me at all is for everyone in this room to get cancer and for my sweet mother to walk out of here with me.”
Dupree rose and approached his brother cautiously. “Please, John Hardin. We know how this ends. You’ll get disoriented and do something stupid. You won’t even mean to do it or know you’re doing it. But it’s in your hands. Get a shot or the cops’ll put out a bulletin to pick you up.”
“If I needed a fortune-teller, asshole, I’d go order a Chinese meal,” John Hardin screamed… “I’m the nicest of the brothers,” John Hardin said. “Mom said that, not me. I’m just reporting the facts. She said I was her favorite. The pick of the litter” (page 137).
“Where’s John Hardin, Dad?” I asked.
“He’s fine. I just told your mother. I saw him at the house this morning. He looked like a million bucks. All he wanted was to borrow a gun.”
Dupree lowered the binoculars and looked at our father with a baleful gaze… “Jesus, I see John Hardin. He’s holding something. Yeah. Congratulations, Dad. It’s your gun.”
“You lent a gun to a paranoid schizophrenic?” Dallas said.
“No, I lent one to John Hardin,” the judge said. “The boy told me he wanted to do a little target shooting…”
“Hey. Waterford,” John Hardin was screaming. “Fuck you. That’s what I think of the town and everyone who lives in it. What a rotten little excuse for a town. Everyone who grows up here, or is forced to live here even for a small amount of time, becomes a complete, worthless asshole. It’s not your fault, Waterford. You can’t help it that you’re rotten to the core. But it’s time. You’re just not worth a shit and it shows.”
“Makes you proud to be a McCall,” Dallas whispered…
“I know what you’re saying, Dupree,” he shouted. “You’re telling everyone I need my shot and then I’ll settle down… I’m never letting another car cross this goddamn bridge. Fuck you, Waterford…”
Dupree stepped forward, the one who loved John Hardin the best and the one John Hardin hated the most.
“Close the bridge, John Hardin,” Dupree demanded.
“Eat a big hairy one, Dupree,” John Hardin answered, using his middle finger to give his words fuller effect. “This town is so shitty it gave my poor mother leukemia… That’s my brother Dupree,” John Hardin screamed from his island of steel. “If they had a contest to find the biggest asshole in the world, I guarantee he’d be a finalist…”
“I never understood why you lived in Europe,” Dallas said, “till this very moment.”
“Lots of rentals,” I said.
“What a loser,” Dupree screamed back at John Hardin. “You’ve been a loser and a phony since the day you were born. Mama just told me that. She’s out of her coma.”
“Mama’s out of her coma?” John Hardin said. “You’re lying. Fuck you, Dupree McCall.” John Hardin’s voice was as poignant as a train whistle now. “I won’t close this bridge until every one shouts ‘Fuck you, Dupree McCall.'”
“Organize the cheer, brothers,” Dupree said. “He means it. And if the SWAT team gets here, they’ll kill our brother. They don’t play.”
We ran down a line of cars and enlisted volunteers from the crowd to pass the word from driver to driver…
The town chanted, “Fuck you, Dupree McCall…”
“Now close the bridge,” Dupree shouted. “Before I come over there and whip your ass.
“You gonna pole-vault, asshole?” John Hardin shouted.
“There are ladies present on the bridge,” Dallas said, changing tactics.
“I apologize to all the ladies I might’ve offended,” John Hardin said, and there was true contrition in his voice. “But my mother has leukemia and I’m really not myself today.”
“Mama’s out of the coma,” Dupree shouted again. “She wants to talk to you. She won’t see the rest of us until she talks to you. Close the bridge.”
“I will under one condition,” John Hardin said… “I want all of my brothers to get stark, buck naked and jump into the river…”
“We get naked,” Dupree said, “Then you throw the gun in the water. We jump in the water. You close the bridge. Deal?”
John Hardin thought a moment, then said. “Deal.”
Dupree stepped out of his underwear, followed by Tee, then me, and finally a very reluctant and grumbling Dallas.
John Hardin grinned happily as he savoured the sight of us, his naked and humiliated brothers. “All of you’ve got little dicks” (pages 244-247).
I listened to this one on audio, too (because it’s seven hundred sixty-eight pages, and you readers of Picky should know how I loathe long books). There were SO, SO many pages of quotes I loved that I could share with yall. These were the snippets I wanted to go back and find.
What sucked: It’s SEVEN HUNDRED SIXTY EIGHT pages. There were a couple of instances of backstory that I wished weren’t so lengthy.
Having said all that: I LOVED this one. The writing’s beautiful. I love the family dynamic. I am in awe of Conroy’s ability to weave tragedy with comedy. It’s REALLY good stuff. Yall should read it.
Originally published October first, ‘seventeen.
Why I read it:Funny, hopeful, foulmouthed, sexy, and tear-jerking (Kirkus Reviews). Sounds like my kind of book. Seriously. Who wouldn’t want to read that? If that wasn’t enough to pique my interest, there’s the first page…
What I liked: He’d stopped trying to bring her back.
She only came back when she felt like it, in dreams and lies and broken-down deja-vu.
Like, he’d be driving to work, and he’d see a girl with red hair standing on the corner–and he’d swear, for half a choking moment, that it was her.
Then he’d see that the girl’s hair was more blond than red.
And that she was holding a cigarette… and wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt.
Eleanor hated the Sex Pistols.
Eleanor…
Standing beside him until he turned his head. Lying next to him just before he woke up. Making everyone else seem drabber and flatter and never good enough.
Eleanor ruined everything (p. 1).
When Eleanor was a little girl, she’d thought her mom looked like a queen… all her bones seemed more purposeful than other people’s. Like they weren’t just there to hold her up; they were there to make a point…
Eleanor looked a lot like her.
But not enough.
Eleanor looked like her mother through a fish tank. Rounder and softer. Slurred. Where her mother was statuesque, Eleanor was heavy. Where her mother was finely drawn, Eleanor was smudged (p. 18)
That must be Eleanor’s mom, park thought, she looked just like her. but sharper and with more shadows. like Eleanor, but taller. like Eleanor, but tired. like Eleanor, after the fall (p. 188).
Holding Eleanor’s hand was like holding a butterfly (p. 71).
“Well, she is kind of weird, isn’t she?”
Park didn’t have the energy to be angry. He sighed and let his head fall back on the chair.
His dad kept talking. “Isn’t that why you like her?” (p. 144)
“Why do you even like me?”
“I don’t like you,” he said. “I need you… I think it’s got as much to do with your hair being red and your hands being soft… and the fact that you smell like homemade birthday cake” (pp. 109-110).
“I don’t like you. Park,” she said, sounding for a second like she actually meant it. “I… think I live for you.”
He closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the pillow.
“I don’t think I even breathe when we’re not together,” she whispered. “Which means, when I see you on Monday morning, it’s been like sixty hours since I’ve taken a breath. That’s probably why I’m so crabby, and why I snap at you. All I do when we’re apart is think about you, and all I do when we’re together is panic. Because every second feels so important. And because I’m so out of control, I can’t help myself. I’m not even mine anymore. I’m yours, and what if you decide that you don’t want me? How could you want me like I want you?”
He was quiet. He wanted everything she’d just said to be the last thing he heard. He wanted to fall asleep with I want you in his ears (p. 111).
“Nothing, really. I just want to be alone with you for a minute.”
He pulled her to the back of the driveway, where they were almost completely hidden by a line of trees and the RV and the garage.
“Seriously?” she said. “That was so lame.”
“I know,” he said, turning to her. “Next time, I’ll just say, ‘Eleanor, follow me down this dark alley, I want to kiss you” (p. 166).
There’s SO much more good, and it’s SO much better than I could possibly convey in excerpts.
What sucked: That it ended. I wasn’t ready to leave them yet.
Having said all that: Best book I’d read that year. Hands down. Solid storytelling through and through.
Originally published June fifth, ‘thirteen.
Why I wanted to read it: I wasn’t as excited about reading this as I was for her other books. Fangirl didn’t do anything for me at all. And while I liked Beth and Jennifer in Attachments, Lincoln didn’t impress me that much. And this one? About a fifteen-year-old marriage in trouble, its complications corrected through conversations held via magic phone calls? I was wary. I wasn’t going to buy it. I’m really glad I did.
What I liked: Neal trimmed the trees. Neal kept tulip bulbs in the refrigerator and sketched garden plans on the back of whole foods receipts. He’d pour over seed catalogs in bed and make Georgie choose which plants she liked best.
“Purple eggplant or white eggplant?” He’d asked her last summer.
“How can you have a white eggplant? That’s like… purple green beans.”
“There are purple green beans. And yellow oranges.”
“Stop. You’re blowing my mind.”
“Oh, I’ll blow your mind. Girlie.”
“Are you flirting with me?”
He’d turned to her then, pen cap in his mouth, and cocked his head. “Yeah, I think so.”
Georgie looked down at her old sweatshirt. At her threadbare yoga pants. “This is what does it for you?”
Neal smiled most of a smile, and the cap fell out of his mouth. “So far.”
Neal… She’d call him tomorrow morning. She’d get through to him this time… Time zones weren’t on their side. And he was pissed with her. She’d make it better… Morning glories, Georgie thought to herself just before she fell asleep (pp. 43-44).
But that’s the thing, Georgie–he isn’t friendly. He growls at people, literally, if they get too close.”
“He doesn’t growl at me,” she said.
“Well, he wouldn’t.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because you’re a pretty girl. You’re probably the only pretty girl who’s ever talked to him. He’s too stunned to growl” (pp. 76-77).
“He was mad when he left, but–I think he’d tell me if he was leaving me. Don’t you think he’d tell me?” she was asking it seriously.
Heather made a face. “God, Georgie, I don’t know. Neal’s not much of a talker. I didn’t even know you were having problems.”
Georgie rubbed her eyes. “We’re always having problems.”
“Well, it doesn’t ever look like it. Every time I talk to you, Neal is bringing you breakfast in bed, or making you a pop-up birthday card.”
“Yeah.” Georgie didn’t want to tell Heather that it wasn’t that simple. That Neal made her breakfast even when he was pissed; sometimes he did it because he was pissed. As a way to act like he was present in their relationship, even when he was chilled through and barely talking to her (p. 106).
Christmas 1998. They fought. Neal went home. He came back. He proposed. they lived not-exactly-happily ever after. Wait, was that what she was supposed to fix? The not-exactly-happy part? How was she supposed to fix something like that, over the phone, when she wasn’t even sure it was fixable?
Christmas 1998. A week without Neal. the worst week of her life. The week he decided to marry her. Was Georgie supposed to make sure that he didn’t? (p. 113).
“You could do this for a living,” Georgie said one night at The Spoon, before they even started dating.
“Entertain you?” Neal said. “Sounds good. How are the benefits?” (p. 117).
Georgie had gotten that far into her imagining–to Neal spooning with his more-suitable-than-Georgie wife–when she imagined Neal’s second-chance kids in this second-chance world. Then she slammed the door shut on all his hypothetical happiness. If the universe thought Georgie was going to erase her kids from the timeline, it had another fucking thing coming (p. 122).
“I don’t want to go out with Jell-O instant pudding,” Georgie said.
“I would marry Jell-O instant pudding.”
Georgie rolled her eyes. “I want to go out with Mikey.”
“I thought you wanted to go out with Jay Anselmo.”
“Jay Anselmo is Mikey,” Georgie explained. “He’s the guy in the life cereal commercial who hates everything. If Mikey likes you, you know you’re good. If Mikey likes you, it means something” (p. 136).
Neal would stir in his sleep and reach for her hips, pulling her back onto the bed. “What are you looking for?”
“Paper,” she’d say, leaning off the bed again. “I have an idea I don’t want to forget.”
She’d feel his mouth at the base of her spine. “Tell me. I’ll remember.”
“You’re asleep, too.”
He’d bite her. “Tell me.”
“It’s a dance,” she’d say. “There’s a dance. And Chloe, the main character, will end up with one of her mom’s old prom dresses. And she’ll try to fix it to make it look cool, like in pretty in pink, but it won’t be cool; it’ll be awful. and something embarrassing will happen at the dance to ‘Try a Little Tenderness.'”
“Got it.” Then Neal would pull her back into bed, into him, holding her in place. “Dance. Dress. ‘Try a Little Tenderness.’ Now go back to sleep.”
And then he’d push up Georgie’s pajama shirt, biting her back until neither of them could go to sleep. And then, eventually, she’d drift off with his hand on her hip and his forehead pressed into her shoulder. She’d get out of the shower the next morning, and it would be written in the steam on the mirror:
Dance. Dress. Try a Little Tenderness (p. 140).
“I’ve wanted a Crayola caddy since 1981,” Georgie said. “It’s all I asked Santa Claus for, three years in a row.”
“Why didn’t your parents just buy it for you?”
She rolled her eyes. “My mom thought it was stupid. She bought me crayons and paint instead.”
“Well–” He lowered his eyebrows thoughtfully–“You could probably have mine.”
Georgie punched his chest with their clasped hands. “Shut. up.” She knew it was stupid, but she was genuinely thrilled about this. “Neal Grafton, you have just made my oldest dream come true.”
Neal held her hand to his heart. His face was neutral, but his eyes were dancing (p. 148).
And it won’t be the same if you have kids with some other, better girl, because they won’t be Alice and Noomie, and even if I’m not your perfect match, they are. God, the three of you. The three of you. When I wake up on Sunday mornings–late, you always let me sleep in–I come looking for you, and you’re in the backyard with dirt on your knees and two little girls spinning around you in perfect orbit… and they look like me because they’re round and golden, but they glow for you (p. 164).
When Georgie thought about divorce now, she imagined lying side by side with Neal on two operating tables while a team of doctors tried to unthread their vascular systems (p. 201).
Neal always held her hand during take off and turbulence… Sometimes he didn’t even look up from his crossword, just reached out for her when the plane started to shake (p. 275).
But these are the little things. There’s pages and pages of goodness… things that are MUCH too good to put here. Things I want you to read for yourselves. You’re gonna love Neal. He’s a pretty cool dude.
What sucked: I’m not so much a fan of Georgie’s name. One of my friends, when I read her some excerpts, she said she liked Neal, but not so much Georgie. That her name ruined it for her. And yeah… I sure wish Ms. Rowell had chosen something else to call her, but… what makes me like Georgie is that she was smart enough to recognize all the good in Neal when so many others could overlook him.
Having said all that: I loved this book. Probably more than Eleanor and Park. And I LOVE that one, so…
Originally published July ninth, ‘fourteen.
Why I wanted to read it: A friend recommended it.
What I liked: But if Meredith had placed me in the group home to scare me into behaving, it hadn’t worked. Despite the staff, I liked it there. Meals were served at regular hours, I slept under two blankets, and no one pretended to love me (p. 10).
I knew who listened to their mother (Genna), who was loved by their teacher (Chloe), and who would rather be buried alive in the sandbox than sit through another day of class (Greta, little Greta: if my asters had been in bloom, I would have left her a bucketful in the sandbox, so desolate was the voice that begged her mother to let her stay (p. 21).
Arranging the flowers and wrapping them in brown paper as I had seen Renata do, I’d felt a buoyancy similar to what I’d felt slipping the dahlias under the bedroom doors of my housemates the morning I’d turned eighteen.
It was a strange feeling–the excitement of a secret combined with the satisfaction of being useful (p. 44)
“No, warmth of feeling,” Elizabeth said. “You know, the tingling feeling you get when you see a person you like.”
I didn’t know that feeling. “Warmth of vomit” (p. 63).
I wasn’t looking for the mysterious vendor; at least, I told myself I wasn’t. When I did see him, I slipped down an alley and ran until I was out of breath (pp. 69-70).
“It’s thorny and pod-bearing. Just the sway of the tree makes you think of shifty-eyed men in convenience stores, untrustworthy.”
“And how is untrustworthy related to secret love?” he asked.
“How is it not?” (p. 86).
There had been a dried-flower business, he explained, but he’d shut it down when his mother became ill. He didn’t much care for the corpses of what had once been alive (p. 103).
“I’m more of a thistle-peony-basil kind of girl,” I said.
“Misanthropy-anger-hate,” said Grant. “Hmm.”
“You asked” (p. 104).
I was sleep-deprived and useless for an entire week. My fur floor didn’t dry for days, and every time I went to lie down, the moisture soaked through my shirt like Grant’s hands, a constant reminder of his touch” (p. 110).
I picked up a Payday and ate out the peanuts until it was nothing but a gooey caramel strip.
“Best part,” Grant said, nodding to the caramel. I handed it to him, and he ate it quickly, as if I would change my mind and take it back. “You must like me more than you let on,” he said, grinning (p. 129).
If I had known how, I would have joined Grant in prayer. I would have prayed for him, for his goodness, his loyalty, and his improbable love. I would have prayed for him to give up, to let go, and to start over. I might have even prayed for forgiveness.
But I didn’t know how to pray (p. 195).
What sucked: The excitement I’d had in the first half fell off in the second, but it should have, as this was the part of the story where the main character screws up royally and you just want to bash her head in and throttle her. Still, the author can’t quite recover that energy in the conclusion, and maybe it’s right that it’s this way, but I wanted that thrill back. I wanted the rush of a great story that I’d felt the author had promised me so wonderfully at the first.
Having said all that: It was the first book I’d read that year that I gushed about to others before I was even halfway through it. The first one I’d felt impatient while reading (a majority of) it, eager to see what happens next. I love these characters, even when they’re being pigheaded, stupid louts–specifically, Victoria. I love how she and Grant find each other. I wish I could’ve loved the story with the same intensity cover to cover, but it’s still the best book I’ve read in a long time. Plus, I stayed up ’til nearly four a.m. to finish the damned thing. And I don’t do that too often anymore. They should make a movie of this, and Carey Mulligan should play Victoria, and Taylor Kitsch should play Grant. For much of the time I’d read it, I wished I could tell a story so well. It’s beautiful.
So turns out they ARE making a movie of it… and I’m not keen on the casting. I have read it again since I’d originally posted this, and it’s SO much better with EVERY read. This book is GOLD, yall. G O L D. READ it.
Originally published February twenty-third, ‘thirteen.
Why I wanted to read it: A gal in the book club I was in picked it.
What I liked: While his proper cup of coffee was brewing, he put on his navy blue trousers and jacket, stepped into his wooden clogs, and shoved his hands in his pockets in that particular way of a middle-aged man who expects the worthless world outside to disappoint him (page 6).
Ove was the sort of man who checks the status of all things by giving them a good kick (page 7).
All the things Ove’s wife has bought are “lovely” or “homey”. Everything Ove buys is useful (pages 12-13).
Ove knew very well that her friends couldn’t understand why she’d married him… Ove wasn’t one to engage in small talk. He had come to realize that, these days at least, this was a serious character flaw. Now one had to be able to blabber on about anything with any old sod who happened to stray within an arm’s length of you purely because it was “nice”… Ove understood things he could see and touch. Wood and concrete. Glass and steel. Tools. Things one could figure out. He understood right angles and clear instruction manuals. assembly models and drawings. Things one could draw on paper. He was a man of black and white. And she was color. All the color he had (pages 36-37).
He was well liked down at the railway, quiet but kind. There were some who said he was “too kind.” Ove remembers how as a child he could never understand how this could be something bad. Then mum died. And Dad grew even quieter. As if she took away with her the few words he possessed (page 39).
“The director asked me to pass on another message… It would be a damned pity for him to be responsible for kicking a decent man’s son into the street just because the son has some principles.”
And so it turned out that Ove became a night cleaner instead. And if this hadn’t happened, he would never have come off his shift that morning and caught sight of her. With those red shoes and the gold brooch and all her burnished brown hair. And that laughter of hers, which, for the rest of his life, would make him feel as if someone were running around barefoot on the inside his breast.
She often said that “All roads lead to something you were predestined to do.” And for her, perhaps, it was something.
But for Ove it was someone (page 79).
He never understood why she chose him. She loved only abstract things like music and books and strange words. Ove was a man entirely filled with tangible things. He liked screwdrivers and oil filters. He went through life with his hands firmly shoved into his pockets. She danced (page 108).
His days passed like this, slow and methodical. And then one morning he saw her. She had brown hair and blue eyes and red shoes and a big yellow clasp in her hair. And then there was no more peace and quiet for Ove (page 116).
Ove had never been asked how he lived before he’d met her. But if anyone had asked him, he would’ve answered that he didn’t (page 131).
So I listened to this one on Audible. But I had to look through the pages and mark the passages that spoke to me because I LOVE Ove’s and his wife Sonja’s love story.
I love how this cranky, quiet man finds someone who can look past the cranky and the quiet and see the good. One of the gals in my writing critique group commented that she couldn’t understand why my guy Reese likes my girl Isabel. And what I wanted to say to her was because he does. Same way Sonja loves Ove, no matter that everyone she knows would prefer she didn’t. I’m all for stories like this, yall. especially when they’re told as well as this one is. I’m all for stories about the ones deemed unlovable whom others find a way to love. They fill me with SUCH hope.
What sucked: The end’s a little cheesy. The beginning’s a little challenging because Ove, again, is a cranky bastard. His character, initially, is hard to love.
Having said all that: If you have not read this, it NEEDS to be on your to be read list. There’s a lot more I loved about this book. I didn’t feel like digging through the whole thing for all of the things. There’s a lot of them. Underneath all that crankiness is a GOOD, GOOD man, worth knowing. And once you know him, it’s easy to love him.
Originally published May twenty-third, ‘seventeen.