This is Anne Lamott’s first novel. It is also the first Anne Lamott novel I read.
Maybe if I didn’t know her themes so well, it wouldn’t have felt so painfully, awkwardly autobiographical, but because I have read some of her memoirs, I cringed at how transparently the sweet but screwy protagonist, Jennifer, represented the author.
Jennifer is 23 and her father has recently been diagnosed with a brain tumor. She seems to have an unacknowledged drinking problem. She isn’t religious but the numinous haunts her. She is obsessed with her skin and hair. She is zany. Her family is oh-so-delightfully quirky, as are her deeply troubled neighbors in the hippie wilds of Marin County. She refers to a ten-year-old as her friend, very earnestly if adorably, as if relying on a ten-year-old for emotional succor, and subjecting the child to one’s romantic woes, is OK and charmingly eccentric, not messed up.
So, basically, it’s a novel that isn’t as good as the memoirs that follow but which tracks the themes of the later memoirs.
However, Lamott’s voice is great, and there is a vividness to her descriptions, and a pleasing (if too cute) candor to her discussion of her home, romantic life, and emotional stability. I will try another Lamott novel, methinks.