I am very glad this is not the first of Shields' books that I have read. I started with the fantastic, The Stone Diaries. Had I started with this, I may not have rushed to try anything else. Oh, it's not bad, it's certainly well-written. But it's underwhelming and perhaps a tad dated. One of these "clever" books delving deep into the lives and characters of ordinary folk where nothing much really happens, but we can try and feel profound. It was strange reading it, as the narrator, Judith, comes across as this middle-aged, middle-class bore, a bit bland, and with a great interest in other people's lives (she is a biographer) but not much about herself. She felt decades older than me. It's set/written in the 70s, so I suppose she is, but at the same time, she's supposedly the same age as I am now.
She is a stay at home mother to two teenage children, who writes biographies, and is married to an English literature academic. She tells her story through the everyday occurances and reflections on moments in her past. Tells us about the year the family spent living in the UK, staying in another academic's flat there, and how she read all of that guy's private notebooks - his unpublished novels. An idea of which she pinches to write her own novel, which she gives to a writer-friend to look over but decides to abandon. Imagine her horror when she realises said writer-friend has then pinched the idea off her and turned it into a very successful book! Worse, the Birmingham academic comes over to visit and says he's getting a novel published, based on their lives as told through the letters of their young son to his daughter. So many levels of betrayals of trust and plagarism!!
There are small intrigues and incidents in the tale. Why does her husband hoard balls of wool in the bottom drawer of his desk? And what about her son Richard and his British penpal, Anita? Oh, my heart did break for him a little when she effectively dumped him without a word.
It bimbles along and then stops in a similar kind of place to where it starts - just an excerpt of a life, make as much or as little of it as you wish. All right, but it does make me wonder if I do want to read anymore of her work.