When life gets rough some girls shop, some girls drink, some get chatty with their girlfriends, and some girls do all of the above, and also grab a stack of novels and soak in the tub until their toes turn to raisins. I’ve been known to turn to a narrative or two when real life gets overwhelming, so I thought this title might be a nice way to ease myself in slowly to the world of chick lit. But nope. Turns out habitually reading books does not make you smarter or more insightful or more interesting. Just means you’re more likely to throw a book at the wall in the middle of your mid-life temper tantrum.
This book’s first chapter starts off with a poignant childhood trauma -- our narrator survives a harrowing car crash with her drunken mother at the wheel. The tone is set for a serious, introspective narrative concerning the repercussions of this tragedy throughout her life -- but wait, this is chick lit, that’s such a bummer, forget we started that way -- let’s talk about my ex-husband who’s wealthy and handsome and successful and, yeah, he’s still in love with me, but I’m so depressed and lonely reading books all the time I really haven’t picked up on it. But there’s this really cute bookseller at my local independent, I think I’ll slum it with the working class for a bit and see if he’ll go out with me. But it turns out he’s a jerk, but he has a really sweet mom and niece and bad shit keeps happening to them and it feels really good to take care of them, so screw the bookseller, but bring on the pseudo-family duties and let’s get back with my ex, ‘cause he is hot and super-rich and thinks it’s cute that I read a lot. Do these books make me look fat? Screw the books, who needs ‘em, I’m going to throw every book I own against the wall ‘cause that bookseller was such a jerk. And then I’m going to donate my busted-up bindings to the library. And then, two weeks later, I’m going to ask for them back, because I am an immature whiney bitch, and can’t figure out what point I’m trying to make, just shut up and let me read.
I can’t figure it out. Two authors who collaborate together, both seemingly having some knowledge of literature, and therefore, one hopes, an inkling of what makes literature good, decide together to write a chick lit novel that depends and relies on a love and respect for literature, and this is what they come up with?! This is what they squeezed from the genre? Is it that chick lit and a thoughtful narrative are irreconcilable? Were they taking on too much? Does anyone care? My surmise is: anyone who likes chick lit will not identify initially with the character (they’re reading chick lit, not McCarthy or Woolf or etc), and anyone who loves to read, as the character claims to, will be insulted by the book’s banality. Oil and water, right here.
I actually owned this copy in my collection. And a good thing to, as my cat shares my feelings on this particular title, and gave it a nice, wet, stinking piss all over the cover. It’s gone to the trash, and it’s the first time this booklover feels no qualms about throwing a book away.