I have to begin by saying this is not the worst novel I’ve ever read. Those of you who know and hate Doug Wilson, the polemicist pastor of Moscow, Idaho, may be alarmed by my opening thesis. Fear not; I am, as Alexander Pope would say, damning him with faint praise. For we already know that Wilson is quick with a quip and always has a stinging metaphor in his holster. We now see that he can tell a story in a straightforward, linear fashion for 311 pages. And he cares enough for his human creations that he makes a sincere effort at characterization, although amateurly depicting his protagonists as rounded characters, and his antagonists as flat. I have read authors who could not accomplish as much.
For those familiar with the Facebook page, “Examining Doug Wilson & Moscow, Idaho,” let me dispense with their objection to the novel: that it is about a sex doll, and it is pornographic. In this PG-worthy story, sex bot Sally is the MacGuffin, and a MacGuffin that Wilson clearly condemns. Spoiler alert: The hero of the book, Ace Hartwick, throws Sally, property of a neighbor, into a thrash compactor and is charged by the state of Colorado with murder, for the neighbor had presented the doll as his wife.
In terms of his general level of craft, we need not awaken the Pulitzer or Nobel committees. While Wilson can write well, he cannot do so consistently, at least not in Ride, Sally, Ride. We need to blink through awkward use of passive voice, jarring shifts in perspective, unskilled repetition of words and phrases, far too many instances where he should have been showing instead of telling, and a paucity of sensory input aside from the visual. To give one cogent example, spoiler, spoiler, spoiler, a “helicopter touched down” on a rooftop to rescue the heroes of the story. I guess we saw this action, but we did not hear the thrumming blades, nor feel the wind whipping the bystanders or blowing dust into their eyes or mouths. The helicopter accepts its holy cargo and takes off, with nary a mention of how anyone’s stomach plummets. As Wilson treats an invitingly visceral experience, so he treats many other passages: artlessly.
He begins several subplots that seem to be dropped at various parts of the novel, and that would have been well enough. But one by one, he picks them up at the end to make tidy. It calls to recollection the dime store detective novel where all the mechanics are revealed in the end. “Ah, so Lionel wasn’t really a nincompoop; he was just playing one for Nebraska’s secret service!”
To understand the real guts of the story, we need to turn our attention to the narrator, who unveils himself, often uncomfortably, in the first person, even presuming to occasionally use the “royal we.” Returning to the fact that Wilson is a fledgeling novelist, and also recalling his various public statements and writings, I have to come to a simple conclusion about the narrator: He is no artistic conjuring, but the man Douglas Wilson himself. The narrator’s need for the spotlight is Wilson’s need for the spotlight, his values are Wilson’s values, his beliefs are Wilson’s beliefs, and his voice is Wilson’s voice.
Therefore, both when the narrator speaks explicitly in the first person, and when we only hear him through the telling of the story, we can have a strong degree of reliability that these are Wilson’s thoughts, beliefs, and prejudices.
So what does Wilson believe?
Lesbians are rotund. And a married woman who runs off with another woman has the motivation of damaging her husband’s pride.
Atheist chicks are ugly.
Non-Christians are inherently stupid. He creates a dichotomy of non-Christian and Christian states, using red state/blue state voting patterns as a proxy for religion. The Democratic states become increasingly impoverished due to the stupidity of their business leaders. He doesn’t mention the fact that in the real world, states with Republican majorities receive more in tax benefits than they pay, so he need not overcome this inconvenient truth. Remember, his version of the future is based on fantasy, not on extrapolation from current realities. Speaking of which, aside from faith in God, the red states can attribute their success to two things: increased oil extraction and encouraging men to marry young and impregnate their wives as often as possible. All of Wilson’s fantasies are replete with gushers.
The right wing, to which I’ll include Wilson, has an interesting pattern of seeing “the enemy” as it knows its own nature to be, in an act of projection. The right tries to pack the judiciary and rig trials, and so Wilson accuses the left in his novel of doing this. Conservative whites seek to persecute minorities and women, and Wilson claims the religious right is persecuted. And thus an antagonist female heathen is counseled, “when you make something up, you are not ‘concocting’ anything. You are a member of an oppressed class.”
Unsurprisingly, in Wilson’s fantasy of a future, men and women have different standards and different expectations. Women are not exactly reduced to their physical characteristics, including attractiveness to men, but it is a primary consideration in their merit. It always bears mentioning. In a novel that uses a sex doll as its primary domino, a hero-lawyer unironically addresses his heroine daughter, Stephanie, as “doll babe.” A woman is expected to be dutiful and pretty, “well-proportioned without being in any way a hazard or public nuisance.” A young woman who develops into maturity wants a man to whom she can “submit… fully, completely.” When nudged in the right direction, women will “rediscover what they are for,” which is implied to be housekeeping and procreation. If a woman is virtuous, even if she is not Christian, it will be her natural and obvious inclination to become Christian. And she will go to the altar a virgin. Her groom need not be a virgin, as long as he can claim that a heathen had seduced him. And soon after the nuptials, the bride will be pregnant.
And I don’t know what to make of Wilson’s beauty standards, beyond WTF, as exemplified by the sex doll so I must emphasize that this is a direct quote: “Her lips had that come-hither pout, that sexy look, like she had just been hit in the mouth with a brick.”
Time for discussion of a literary technique: rule vs. exception. Suppose an author was to write a story about a vicious dog. It attacks and kills other dogs, cats, people, endangered snails, etc. If the author believes dogs are as a rule inherently and irredeemably bad, we need only see his one dog to illustrate the point. If the author wants us to understand that not all dogs are like this, and his main character dog is an exception, then he shows us another dog, or dogs, being gentle, loving, and saving infants from burning buildings.
In chapter 8 of Ride, Sally, Ride, “The Plot Thickens,” we have a shyster buffoon of a lawyer who tries to defame the novel’s hero on the principle of “believing all women.” He presents a woman who transparently lies that Ace had abused her sexually. There are many ways an author can have the heroes respond to this challenge. Wilson’s choice is telling. The righteous heroine, Stephanie, invents an incident of molestation that slimeball attorney Glastonbury supposedly perpetrated on her. The implication is clear: A woman claiming sexual assault is not to be believed. She is a liar. Every one of them, no matter who she is or what the circumstance. Women are not to be believed regarding sexual assault.
So there you have it: the novel, Ride, Sally, Ride, a product of its creator.
But wait! There’s more!
Mr. Wilson surprises us at a couple points. He truly does. For while we may expect the kind of inviolable, top-down patriarchy that hearkens back to the Third Reich, Wilson shows us that disobedience, inservitute, is allowed, and actually welcome at some points. The hero, Ace Hartwick, does not respect the wishes of his Christian, but apparently insufficiently Christian, father in regards to our beloved sex bot Sally. Ace’s mother wrings her hands in deference to her husband, but only for so long, for she breaks from him to take the side of her righteous son. And Wilson also implies that a woman may decline to take her husband past third base.
Take note, women and children of Wilson’s Christ Church. The narrator of Ride, Sally, Ride, aka Pastor Doug Wilson, says it is OK to disobey the patriarchy. So show your faith the way you want, withhold sex from your husband, I guess you can even vote the way you want, assured by the fact that Wilson allows a bit of autonomy in his characters, and therefore, he will allow it in you.