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Displaying 1 - 30 of 124 reviews
August 10, 2010
Seven quirky stories tied together by Catholic guilt and existential angst about stumblers and fumblers. Rivecca would seem to have the bleakest of outlooks, except that she makes you laugh, and, because her voices are so dead on, keeps you reading.
Her principal characters, some of whom narrate, are too smart to let their sorry situations be taken too seriously, or to believe in salvation. Whether children or youngish adults, they accept 'a contant sense of futility' that has its own rewards.
They escape the trap of merely playing their parts, as attractive as those parts might be--a witness to miraculous visions, for example, or a giver of magnanimous forgiveness. They never are anything less than authentically and completely real.
I'd forgotten what a pleasure it can be to read a single author's collection of short stories. It's been a long time--since 'The View from Castle Rock' by Alice Munro, with whom Rivecca bears comparison.
To prove her chops, Rivecca wraps it up with the astounding 'None of the Above.' It's the tale of a third-grade teacher and her most unusual student. With its subtle and surprising nod to Frank R. Stockton and the twist expected in a classic short story, it leaves her readers knowing the secret questions of student and teacher, without a pat answer.
Her principal characters, some of whom narrate, are too smart to let their sorry situations be taken too seriously, or to believe in salvation. Whether children or youngish adults, they accept 'a contant sense of futility' that has its own rewards.
They escape the trap of merely playing their parts, as attractive as those parts might be--a witness to miraculous visions, for example, or a giver of magnanimous forgiveness. They never are anything less than authentically and completely real.
I'd forgotten what a pleasure it can be to read a single author's collection of short stories. It's been a long time--since 'The View from Castle Rock' by Alice Munro, with whom Rivecca bears comparison.
To prove her chops, Rivecca wraps it up with the astounding 'None of the Above.' It's the tale of a third-grade teacher and her most unusual student. With its subtle and surprising nod to Frank R. Stockton and the twist expected in a classic short story, it leaves her readers knowing the secret questions of student and teacher, without a pat answer.
July 4, 2010
I loved this book. I read an interview with the author in which she stated the stories were about disaffected Catholic Midwesterners which may be why the stories resonated so strongly with me. Recurring themes are also the relationship between victim and victimizer, the moment when emotional insight and honesty occurs and the emotional terrain of contemporary young women. Rivecca writes with piercing insight as well as grace and creates memorably complex and flawed young women. Her prose is truly beautiful and darkly humorous when required.
Some of my favorite lines, "I start getting a weird feeling during the umpteen stills from last semester's Festival of faith 'talent' show featuring Amber Golin's interpretive dance-streamers and a leotard were involved-to R.E.M.'s 'Losing My Religion.' She ruined that song for me forever, not to mention she completely missed the point-it's called "Losing My Religion," not "Celebrating My Patriarchal Religion with a Cheesy Streamer Dance Featuring My Huge Camel Toe."
Some of my favorite lines, "I start getting a weird feeling during the umpteen stills from last semester's Festival of faith 'talent' show featuring Amber Golin's interpretive dance-streamers and a leotard were involved-to R.E.M.'s 'Losing My Religion.' She ruined that song for me forever, not to mention she completely missed the point-it's called "Losing My Religion," not "Celebrating My Patriarchal Religion with a Cheesy Streamer Dance Featuring My Huge Camel Toe."
November 6, 2010
I would probably do 3.5 stars if that were an option. I thought the writing was good (I read the whole thing on a 2.5-hour flight) but these short stories do that thing that sometimes irritates me about short stories but sort of seems to be a convention of the genre: make themselves slightly implausible and leave you with more questions about almost all parts of them -- plot, character, etc. -- than a novel would. Maybe that's inevitable because of their length but I don't feel like it has to be. And Rivecca definitely does. Some of them were great; I loved the final story, "None of the Above," which WAS implausible in one way but was also very compelling. But others drove me a bit crazy, particularly the two that are written in the second person, that were oblique and much heavier on description than dialogue or plotting.
Rivecca is interesting in her exploration of girls' and young women's sexuality, however, and that I appreciated. She also loves the word "inchoate," which appears more times than one would normally expect it in a collection this short.
Rivecca is interesting in her exploration of girls' and young women's sexuality, however, and that I appreciated. She also loves the word "inchoate," which appears more times than one would normally expect it in a collection this short.
June 27, 2011
First of all, let me just state here that I won this book on Good Reads via the First Reads giveaway. When I received this book in the mail, I tore open the package in only what could be called a 'bodice ripping' movement. I was that excited to read this collection of short stories that I had heard so much praise about and you know what?
I actually really enjoyed the seven stories that make up this collection and felt the praise it's been getting was pretty accurate.
The stories that make up this book have running themes that permeate not only the story but the book as a whole. These themes are:
- Catholic Guilt
- Losing one's religion
- Loss of Innocence before it's even known that it's theirs to lose
- A constant sense of futility
- Heartbreaking moments where witty humor is used to defuse the situation and maybe even come to understand it better
The voices of the women narrators in each of these pieces are very strong and opinionated, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I saw a lot of myself in each of these stories since I most certainly would regard myself as a 'disenchanted catholic' and I am still trying to unravel my own web of guilt.
All in all, a very good read from an awesome up and coming new writer. Suzanne Rivecca, you've found a new fan in me.
I actually really enjoyed the seven stories that make up this collection and felt the praise it's been getting was pretty accurate.
The stories that make up this book have running themes that permeate not only the story but the book as a whole. These themes are:
- Catholic Guilt
- Losing one's religion
- Loss of Innocence before it's even known that it's theirs to lose
- A constant sense of futility
- Heartbreaking moments where witty humor is used to defuse the situation and maybe even come to understand it better
The voices of the women narrators in each of these pieces are very strong and opinionated, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I saw a lot of myself in each of these stories since I most certainly would regard myself as a 'disenchanted catholic' and I am still trying to unravel my own web of guilt.
All in all, a very good read from an awesome up and coming new writer. Suzanne Rivecca, you've found a new fan in me.
February 20, 2018
Five word summary of this book? Distances from self and others. Or: Seven stories about deep alienation. Or (six words this time): Life as a string of near misses. Or (seven words, just as there are seven stories in the book): go away, no come back, go away... Or (eight, not including parentheticals): about how many letters (written and/or sent) live in this book. (Including: the suggestion of letters to Claire in the opening story--I'll count all the possible letters between Claire and Emma as one actual letter, though mathematically that seems a bit lazy and also, I am sure somewhere in this book I read an actual letter from Claire to Emma, or from Emma to Claire, but now as I look for it, I can't seem to find one; moving on...one letter from Jason to Katrina, one from Katrina to Jason in "Yours Will Do Nicely"; the story "Consummation", which is, in full, a letter to a doctor (that is the conceit, I mean) and begins "Twenty-seven years ago, when you were a surgical intern at Bingham Medical Center in Paw Paw Michigan, you saved my father's life"; just about four unnerving letters from Glenn to Isabel in "Look, Ma, I'm Breathing.)
Another synopsis, two words this time: emotional alienation (though I don't know if those words are quite right.) Or (exactly twenty, for no apparent reason): lashing out at anyone who tries to get close or else pretending to feel close but never really feeling anything.
This book reminded me, though it is a collection of short stories, of the novel "Special Topics in Calamity Physics." There's a kind of intriguing twist of youthful inexperience and the wisdom of outsiderness. All the female protagonists seem to me just a little bit like Blue. Awkward. Unsure how to go about being a human animal. Distancing themselves from emotional connection with wit, irony, philosophical musings...
This book is compelling and also frustrating. It's smart. The writing is sophisticated and rich, there is a lot of tension and the stories take fantastic twists and turns, and yet a the book is a bit adolescent in all of its angsty defense mechanisms (I find this to be true of a lot of writers I love. It is not necessarily a criticism. I'm just not sure what it is.)
I read it last night and couldn't put it down. I read all but the final story (which is, I think, possibly the best in the collection) and then dreamed my first serious girlfriend, A., (twenty years back) was trying to make me give her a Scooby Doo tattoo on her sternum, just black ink, and when I kind of shrunk away in fear of messing it up she grabbed the needle from me in exasperation and started doing the tattoo herself. When she was done (the tattoo was a mess--Scooby Doo as drawn by a pre-schooler) she turned to me and demanded I let her give me a Scooby Doo tattoo. I was trying to escape...And then I was on a hillside with D., not a lover, a friend, a former friend, a person who, a few years after A. and I broke up, hurt me deeply. We had been living together. We had a kind of platonic domestic partnership that was lovely in moments, but she grew resentful and cruel and it gradually dawned on me (she made it very clear) that she cared nothing for me as a person. She was, very simply, using me. I think I really thought she was a friend. But I was wrong about so many things back then. And she, too, in the dream, was demanding something from me. Something I didn't want to give. And then her partner came and took D's arm, and the two of them turned away from me contemptuously and walked together up the hill, never looking back...And that is when I woke up.
I picked up the book right away to finish the last story, "None of the Above". One of the first things I did after having a bit of breakfast was look online to see if there were any news items about raccoons chewing off children's faces. (You'll understand why when you read the story.) Apparently it happens now and again. As I was searching, I came across this, which, for some reason, even though it is not about profound mauling, I find chilling.
http://remocoon.mnsi.net/remofaq.htm
I also, after reading the final story, thought of the graphic biography of Josephine Baker, which I read a few months ago and still haven't reviewed. But I can't say more, because I'll give too many things away.
I like the way the book ends with a reflection on the act of storytelling.
"For the rest of Alma's life, whenever she told this story, people would ask her what went through her mind. They mean the moment she saw...Her refusal to talk to the local paper...was easy to understand. But they all wanted to know what she felt at the exact second...Alma had a stock answer. She felt terror, she would tell them, dutifully and more or less truthfully."
I agree with some reviewers who say the book is a bit claustrophobic. There's a kind of hammering sensation, all of the narrators similarly oriented toward a certain kind of distance. All of them grappling with the sensation of life after a religious upbringing. It's true, this is very much the work of a young writer. But I still think it's a very worthwhile collection and maybe it's beauty wouldn't come through without its very human flaws.
This is a book in which emotional truths are often quite different than factual reality. In order to make sense of their internal experiences, the characters that people this book sometimes have to readjust-- for their own efforts at communication, at hiding and being seen--what other people see as facts. Does reality consist of the "facts" themselves or the experiences found among them? Plucked out of the rubble; built haphazardly into a sense of self. Names and dates and various moments rattled off in order to explain oneself to others. In order to distance oneself from others, but still make one's outline, in some, small way, visible.
To communicate is a complex and contradictory series of events--moments, days, fractions of seconds--it's a game, but not always a game, of pushing and pulling, revealing and disguising, hoping for connection and disconnection all at the same time. This book is exquisite in its acknowledgement of alienation that comes from trauma and the challenge of letting people in and letting people go and all the puzzling in-betweens.
Another synopsis, two words this time: emotional alienation (though I don't know if those words are quite right.) Or (exactly twenty, for no apparent reason): lashing out at anyone who tries to get close or else pretending to feel close but never really feeling anything.
This book reminded me, though it is a collection of short stories, of the novel "Special Topics in Calamity Physics." There's a kind of intriguing twist of youthful inexperience and the wisdom of outsiderness. All the female protagonists seem to me just a little bit like Blue. Awkward. Unsure how to go about being a human animal. Distancing themselves from emotional connection with wit, irony, philosophical musings...
This book is compelling and also frustrating. It's smart. The writing is sophisticated and rich, there is a lot of tension and the stories take fantastic twists and turns, and yet a the book is a bit adolescent in all of its angsty defense mechanisms (I find this to be true of a lot of writers I love. It is not necessarily a criticism. I'm just not sure what it is.)
I read it last night and couldn't put it down. I read all but the final story (which is, I think, possibly the best in the collection) and then dreamed my first serious girlfriend, A., (twenty years back) was trying to make me give her a Scooby Doo tattoo on her sternum, just black ink, and when I kind of shrunk away in fear of messing it up she grabbed the needle from me in exasperation and started doing the tattoo herself. When she was done (the tattoo was a mess--Scooby Doo as drawn by a pre-schooler) she turned to me and demanded I let her give me a Scooby Doo tattoo. I was trying to escape...And then I was on a hillside with D., not a lover, a friend, a former friend, a person who, a few years after A. and I broke up, hurt me deeply. We had been living together. We had a kind of platonic domestic partnership that was lovely in moments, but she grew resentful and cruel and it gradually dawned on me (she made it very clear) that she cared nothing for me as a person. She was, very simply, using me. I think I really thought she was a friend. But I was wrong about so many things back then. And she, too, in the dream, was demanding something from me. Something I didn't want to give. And then her partner came and took D's arm, and the two of them turned away from me contemptuously and walked together up the hill, never looking back...And that is when I woke up.
I picked up the book right away to finish the last story, "None of the Above". One of the first things I did after having a bit of breakfast was look online to see if there were any news items about raccoons chewing off children's faces. (You'll understand why when you read the story.) Apparently it happens now and again. As I was searching, I came across this, which, for some reason, even though it is not about profound mauling, I find chilling.
http://remocoon.mnsi.net/remofaq.htm
I also, after reading the final story, thought of the graphic biography of Josephine Baker, which I read a few months ago and still haven't reviewed. But I can't say more, because I'll give too many things away.
I like the way the book ends with a reflection on the act of storytelling.
"For the rest of Alma's life, whenever she told this story, people would ask her what went through her mind. They mean the moment she saw...Her refusal to talk to the local paper...was easy to understand. But they all wanted to know what she felt at the exact second...Alma had a stock answer. She felt terror, she would tell them, dutifully and more or less truthfully."
I agree with some reviewers who say the book is a bit claustrophobic. There's a kind of hammering sensation, all of the narrators similarly oriented toward a certain kind of distance. All of them grappling with the sensation of life after a religious upbringing. It's true, this is very much the work of a young writer. But I still think it's a very worthwhile collection and maybe it's beauty wouldn't come through without its very human flaws.
This is a book in which emotional truths are often quite different than factual reality. In order to make sense of their internal experiences, the characters that people this book sometimes have to readjust-- for their own efforts at communication, at hiding and being seen--what other people see as facts. Does reality consist of the "facts" themselves or the experiences found among them? Plucked out of the rubble; built haphazardly into a sense of self. Names and dates and various moments rattled off in order to explain oneself to others. In order to distance oneself from others, but still make one's outline, in some, small way, visible.
To communicate is a complex and contradictory series of events--moments, days, fractions of seconds--it's a game, but not always a game, of pushing and pulling, revealing and disguising, hoping for connection and disconnection all at the same time. This book is exquisite in its acknowledgement of alienation that comes from trauma and the challenge of letting people in and letting people go and all the puzzling in-betweens.
October 6, 2010
This book had some nice literary writing, but overall it was not my taste. The first story was the best because the author had enough distance to look back. All of these stories had a very autobiographical feeling to them, which in itself is not a bad thing, but these stories felt adolescent - like a manuscript written for a graduate thesis chapbook. I also felt that the way she often portrayed herself (in character of course) was a bit repetitive and frankly self aggrandizing. I mean, the main character is always smart, always sassy, always academic. It got tiring. I think this quality came through though very much because she wasn't old enough yet to write these stories. This is a time in life that is best looked back on from a great distance because they are so tumultuous, immature, and ridiculous.
November 8, 2022
I wish death would have been an option…
October 14, 2010
I almost gave up on these stories because I had a negative reaction to the first in this collection, the actual story "Death Is Not an Option." It is the weakest here. It felt like I had to be just out of college to think about life in line with a narrator who spoke in such a sarcastic, smartass way, let alone the references to pop culture that I did not want to investigate (Free Willy theme song?). But I started the next story, and I progressively gained a real appreciation for the rest of the collection. Five stars impressed and engaged.
"Very Special Victims," had me tensely holding my breath, the same with "None of the Above" about a school teacher feeling overwhelmed with a student who may or may not be abused at home. Rivecca is not breezily writing her way through traumatic circumstances, but rather makes her characters stronger because they react to bad situations in complex ways -- with humor, tears, anger, absurdity.
Rivecca exposes a true feeling of our times -- that no choice we make is the best choice and that there are many sides to every action we take. The world is gray, no matter how tea-party-angry we get. A lot of her characters make heavy moral choices, and then, the characters are judged and examined by family or friends or strangers. They are judged by the reader. There is even a story where the narrator is writing to a doctor and telling him how saving a man's life -- what would surely be thought of as a good thing -- has impacted her terribly.
The themes in the stories also touch on the complicated mixture of truth and fiction writing. I liked a passage in particular from "Consummation" that goes: "Every person who lives a life eventually starts to make it all up: not just the past but the future, too. The only thing you can't create is the present, while it's happening...."
"Very Special Victims," had me tensely holding my breath, the same with "None of the Above" about a school teacher feeling overwhelmed with a student who may or may not be abused at home. Rivecca is not breezily writing her way through traumatic circumstances, but rather makes her characters stronger because they react to bad situations in complex ways -- with humor, tears, anger, absurdity.
Rivecca exposes a true feeling of our times -- that no choice we make is the best choice and that there are many sides to every action we take. The world is gray, no matter how tea-party-angry we get. A lot of her characters make heavy moral choices, and then, the characters are judged and examined by family or friends or strangers. They are judged by the reader. There is even a story where the narrator is writing to a doctor and telling him how saving a man's life -- what would surely be thought of as a good thing -- has impacted her terribly.
The themes in the stories also touch on the complicated mixture of truth and fiction writing. I liked a passage in particular from "Consummation" that goes: "Every person who lives a life eventually starts to make it all up: not just the past but the future, too. The only thing you can't create is the present, while it's happening...."
February 15, 2017
This was such a good collection. I guess this is what I wanted Difficult Women and Always Happy Hour to have been, but weren't. Well, some of the stories in Difficult Women reached higher highs than the ones in this book, but on the whole, I prefer Death is Not an Option.
I loved everything, all of the stories. But my special love is for Consummation, a letter by an ambiguous daughter thanking, after many years, the doctor who saved her father's life when she was four. I'm not an ambiguous daughter by any means, but the love this unnamed letter writer feels for her dad even as she denies it, that touched me. I love my dad, even though there are some things about him I would have been happy to do without. Lovely story.
Another one I really loved is referenced in the cover, None of the Above, in which a 3rd grade teacher is concerned about a very well behaved student turning up with mysterious abrasions and puncture wounds. She's sure there's something wrong, but they don't seem weighty enough to report to social services. The conclusion is both awesome and poignant.
I loved everything, all of the stories. But my special love is for Consummation, a letter by an ambiguous daughter thanking, after many years, the doctor who saved her father's life when she was four. I'm not an ambiguous daughter by any means, but the love this unnamed letter writer feels for her dad even as she denies it, that touched me. I love my dad, even though there are some things about him I would have been happy to do without. Lovely story.
Another one I really loved is referenced in the cover, None of the Above, in which a 3rd grade teacher is concerned about a very well behaved student turning up with mysterious abrasions and puncture wounds. She's sure there's something wrong, but they don't seem weighty enough to report to social services. The conclusion is both awesome and poignant.
December 13, 2021
I couldn’t seem to lose a pervading feeling of hopelessness whilst reading these. Although each protagonist is portrayed as strong, intelligent and impenetrable, they all have the characteristic of accepting fate, an almost submission to the world’s trials and tragedies. Sometimes this is all you can do, and it presented a bleak picture for me.
But I didn’t like any of these women. I didn’t connect, didn’t engage, quite simply didn’t care. This could be the fault of short story format - often there just aren’t enough words to endear us to someone. It could also be a deliberate tactic to allow us to understand the fleeting moments in life, the people we touch only briefly, or the impossibility of knowing everyone’s inner demons. Whichever reason it is, I tuned out.
Rivecca’s prose is incredibly eloquent - I’d like to say lyrical, but the actual word swimming around my head is ‘flowery’. It made me feel sleepy, as though I were lying in a warm field in the height of summer. I wanted it to make me sit upright, to pay attention. It’s difficult to describe.
Either this book is just not for me, or I’ve read it at the wrong time in my life.
But I didn’t like any of these women. I didn’t connect, didn’t engage, quite simply didn’t care. This could be the fault of short story format - often there just aren’t enough words to endear us to someone. It could also be a deliberate tactic to allow us to understand the fleeting moments in life, the people we touch only briefly, or the impossibility of knowing everyone’s inner demons. Whichever reason it is, I tuned out.
Rivecca’s prose is incredibly eloquent - I’d like to say lyrical, but the actual word swimming around my head is ‘flowery’. It made me feel sleepy, as though I were lying in a warm field in the height of summer. I wanted it to make me sit upright, to pay attention. It’s difficult to describe.
Either this book is just not for me, or I’ve read it at the wrong time in my life.
March 28, 2019
Well-sculptured characters propel her first
collection. Reading is a good option.
collection. Reading is a good option.
April 24, 2011
I do think this is an outstanding debut collection, and I did really enjoy it. But I have some issues with it. First, it starts out with the wrong story, I think. When I first started it, I kind of thought, "Wait, this is getting these kinds of reviews? My friends and favorite booksellers [always trust your independent booksellers] are telling me to read this? I mean, it seems decent so far, but it's not 'ferocious' and amazing." That shouldn't happen. I feel like something like the memoir/stalker story, the dad/frog story, or "It Sounds Like You're Feeling" would have gotten me thinking, "Wow, this girl really is the hot new shit" right away (I would also have said "Very Special Victims" - which would have been my favorite had it not been for the memoir/stalker story simply because I can relate to it strongly, though "VSV" may actually be the "best," but you can't really put a two-part story at the front of a collection, I guess; the tiger story is also great, but it's such a good finale that I would never move it in fantasy editing). The editor should bury the weakest stories in the middle so that the reader is already committed and is reading with the sense that s/he already likes the writer, which makes a good to mediocre story good to great, you know (but maybe that's what I didn't like the first story as much as the others)? Thinking back, though, I see a somewhat chronological, character age-wise, narrative thread running through, which works well for the book's major themes, so perhaps having "Death is Not an Option" first makes the most sense. Maybe I would like it better if I reread it and am focusing too much on what I saw as a kind of amateurish fascination with high school but is really a very well-grasped sense of that period and of that sort of voice. Maybe that it made me uncomfortably ambivalent is a testament to Rivecca's talent (but it didn't make me uncomfortable like, "This subject matter is tough/taboo/really sensitve;" it made me cringe a little in embarrassment, which is similar, maybe - familiarity?). I don't know. I also have an issue with all the characters - aside from tiger story Alma - drinking tea. No one ever drinks coffee? Everyone seriously drinks tea? This seems like something I would have brought up and said, "It makes your characters seem same-y." In some cases, like the hippie story, tea made sense. In others, it seemed a little put-on or conspicuous in a way that was unnecessary and did sort of make me think that perhaps Suzanne Rivecca drinks tea and so had her characters do the same, which may not be fair; perhaps she really thought these women were all tea-drinkers. That would just kind of surprise me.
But, really, she handled the themes really well, she tackled them from multiple points of view, and looked at them from different angles (which is different from different POVs). Even if some of the characters were a little same-y (not just in their tea-drinking), they were generally well-drawn. Her writing is strong: really strong word choices and descriptions (in most instances; there were a few with which I took issue, but I won't nitpick), very little felt unnecessary or not fully cooked. It's clear that she had a strong vision for this, and she carried it through successfully and managed to entertain and provoke in the process.
I would definitely recommend this to people who like short stories, especially in the sort of "women's/sexuality" category (it's so sad that that's a category; there is no "men's/sexuality" category - that's just called "literature"). I think, honestly, I would most highly recommend it to fans of Joyce Carol Oates. Rivecca is not quit Oates (in my opinion, no one is or ever will be, especially not where the short story is concerned), but she's dealing with similar topics and doing so differently but very, very close to as well - and that's a big fucking deal kind of thing to say - especially for me (go look at my bookshelf and count how many JCO books I read compared to any other author - or all other authors combined).
But, really, she handled the themes really well, she tackled them from multiple points of view, and looked at them from different angles (which is different from different POVs). Even if some of the characters were a little same-y (not just in their tea-drinking), they were generally well-drawn. Her writing is strong: really strong word choices and descriptions (in most instances; there were a few with which I took issue, but I won't nitpick), very little felt unnecessary or not fully cooked. It's clear that she had a strong vision for this, and she carried it through successfully and managed to entertain and provoke in the process.
I would definitely recommend this to people who like short stories, especially in the sort of "women's/sexuality" category (it's so sad that that's a category; there is no "men's/sexuality" category - that's just called "literature"). I think, honestly, I would most highly recommend it to fans of Joyce Carol Oates. Rivecca is not quit Oates (in my opinion, no one is or ever will be, especially not where the short story is concerned), but she's dealing with similar topics and doing so differently but very, very close to as well - and that's a big fucking deal kind of thing to say - especially for me (go look at my bookshelf and count how many JCO books I read compared to any other author - or all other authors combined).
September 15, 2021
There is a lot to like here, Rivecca writes well and the seven short stories are fresh and original, though a little dark and not for all.
The first story, “death is not an option”, put me off a bit as it seemed geared for a younger reader, but if that happens to you, give the others a try. I liked “yours will do nicely”, which was about a girl picking up a stranger in a bar, and her conflicted feelings about him and a male friend. “very special victims”, was excellent, about the aftermath in life to being molested by an uncle as a child; I found it both unflinchingly honest as well as subtle. Lastly “look, ma, i’m breathing” was also good, about a young author who wrote of having lied about seeing the Virgin Mary as a child and then later confessed; in searching for a place to rent, she runs across a somewhat creepy would-be landlord.
A little uneven but worth reading, and I will look for more from Rivecca.
Quotes:
On child abuse, this in trying to discern abuse as a teacher in “none of the above”:
“Alma knew the signs. Abused and neglected children were (a) withdrawn; (b) developmentally delayed; or (c) ‘acting out,’ a term she despised for its jargony inexactitude, but she knew it when she saw it. And Peter was none of the above.”
On children:
“She loved her students, all of them, even the ones she didn’t like. They broke her heart. Not because their lives were bad, but because she saw their personalities forming day to day and some of them had such charisma, such wily quirky charm, and others were so shy and kind, and once in a while she’d fleetingly recognize some familiar, adaptive, adultlike tic in their facial expressions or voices – the way they’d leap into a conversation to say their piece or brusquely brush off an advance would remind her of her favorite aunt, say, or her old boyfriend from college. And it was somehow sad to see such identifiable traits in such miniature packages, like baby animals whose paws were far too big for their bodies. The traits were so much more endearing in people who didn’t know how to wield them. Each child was a particular type of person – the type to bring a book on a plane to ward off garrulous strangers, the type to be a garrulous stranger – and they didn’t know it yet.”
On lust:
“She had never hated him before; she did now. She scrutinized him for a trace of the taut, hunted shiftiness men’s faces assumed when they were driven to be with her and didn’t know why. It was never sweet. They were never besotted, just stiffly, sullenly advancing as though shoved toward her from behind. Sometimes they looked at her like an animal eyeing an untrustworthy trainer; other times in a gauging, measuring way, like she was an obstruction they needed to lift and move to get what they wanted.”
On meeting someone, this is an excerpt from a letter in “yours will do nicely”:
“When you told me about putting the radio collar on the female wolf, I envied you. I want to find a beautiful wild thing and track it, be able to tell if it’s still alive from hundreds of miles away, be able to know I had once touched a killer while she was unconscious, briefly and vulnerably harmless for the first time in her life. I keep thinking of the wolf waking up in the snow hours later like a creature coming out of a spell, feeling that something about her was different but not knowing why, shaking the snow off her fur and running back into the trees, irreversibly changed, connected to someone now. And never knowing it. But on come cellular level I think she does know. Maybe that’s why she went so far away.
…
Choose life, said the Catholics. Choose life, said the pagans. I finally am, but not in the way either creed intended. I don’t want to know every little thing that’ll happen to me up until the day I die. I don’t want to follow the plan to a higher power. I think that meeting you, singling you out and asking you for something, was the first step toward a new way of being. And I am changed now. I am touched, and I walk into the woods knowing it.”
On sex:
“I usually hated it when men used the term ‘make love.’ It sounded so squishy and earnest, like some kind of craft project. But then Jason put his arms around me and finally I could feel him, his hands intelligently registering all my bones and my skin, his lips burrowed in the crook of my neck and shoulder, and it was ridiculous how this made me so instantly happy, so relieved I’d been granted something another girl had been denied. I imagined her German face stern and spare with deprivation, and wondered what she had done wrong, and what I had done right. I slid into that detached sated space of knowing someone wants me.”
On telling three consecutive boyfriends about being molested as a child:
“…to think of anything other than the men she had told, and what they had said to her. Things like, Some of the sex stuff, it’s not healthy. And, I am so so so sorry. And, Get over here. And, Nothing will ever hurt you again. And, Why did you let him? And, I can’t. And, What can I do? And, This is repetitive. And, Somewhere in the world people are starving. And, You have to tell me what feels good. And, I want to feel your clit on my tongue. Please, for me. What was the point of it all, this exhaustive cycle of call-and-response, disclosure, and reaction? She thought with relief of the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh men, from whom she would never hear a word on the subject.
She heard sirens in the distance, wailing and persecutory, in hot pursuit of someone. She wondered who was being chased. Her first thought was of the uncle, but that couldn’t be: Who would have told, and why would they care? The one they should be chasing, she thought, was her. She imagined herself lying on pavement, the blue-uniformed silhouettes of men looming over her. How grateful she would be as she waited for them to deliver their most merciful line, that rote benediction bestowed on every single person in trouble: the insane and the reasonable, homeless and naked, innocent and guilty, uncles and nieces. You have the right to remain silent.
On therapy:
“A blind man with a dog who is beginning to resemble him – frowsy, leaking sighs and grunts, unnervingly mild – is asking you to justify your highly dysfunctional attitude toward your own romantic viability and you will not do it, you will not trot out the stock villains, you will not rehash the smug triteness of it all because it’s been done, it’s old: even the nightmares have the stale odor of a textbook.”
On writing:
“…she held the scotch in one hand and knew it was useless, knew that nothing would ever come out of her more purely or clearly than things like this: these distilled episodes, these illuminated lamentations, sculpted in all the right places, these testimonies of harm.”
The first story, “death is not an option”, put me off a bit as it seemed geared for a younger reader, but if that happens to you, give the others a try. I liked “yours will do nicely”, which was about a girl picking up a stranger in a bar, and her conflicted feelings about him and a male friend. “very special victims”, was excellent, about the aftermath in life to being molested by an uncle as a child; I found it both unflinchingly honest as well as subtle. Lastly “look, ma, i’m breathing” was also good, about a young author who wrote of having lied about seeing the Virgin Mary as a child and then later confessed; in searching for a place to rent, she runs across a somewhat creepy would-be landlord.
A little uneven but worth reading, and I will look for more from Rivecca.
Quotes:
On child abuse, this in trying to discern abuse as a teacher in “none of the above”:
“Alma knew the signs. Abused and neglected children were (a) withdrawn; (b) developmentally delayed; or (c) ‘acting out,’ a term she despised for its jargony inexactitude, but she knew it when she saw it. And Peter was none of the above.”
On children:
“She loved her students, all of them, even the ones she didn’t like. They broke her heart. Not because their lives were bad, but because she saw their personalities forming day to day and some of them had such charisma, such wily quirky charm, and others were so shy and kind, and once in a while she’d fleetingly recognize some familiar, adaptive, adultlike tic in their facial expressions or voices – the way they’d leap into a conversation to say their piece or brusquely brush off an advance would remind her of her favorite aunt, say, or her old boyfriend from college. And it was somehow sad to see such identifiable traits in such miniature packages, like baby animals whose paws were far too big for their bodies. The traits were so much more endearing in people who didn’t know how to wield them. Each child was a particular type of person – the type to bring a book on a plane to ward off garrulous strangers, the type to be a garrulous stranger – and they didn’t know it yet.”
On lust:
“She had never hated him before; she did now. She scrutinized him for a trace of the taut, hunted shiftiness men’s faces assumed when they were driven to be with her and didn’t know why. It was never sweet. They were never besotted, just stiffly, sullenly advancing as though shoved toward her from behind. Sometimes they looked at her like an animal eyeing an untrustworthy trainer; other times in a gauging, measuring way, like she was an obstruction they needed to lift and move to get what they wanted.”
On meeting someone, this is an excerpt from a letter in “yours will do nicely”:
“When you told me about putting the radio collar on the female wolf, I envied you. I want to find a beautiful wild thing and track it, be able to tell if it’s still alive from hundreds of miles away, be able to know I had once touched a killer while she was unconscious, briefly and vulnerably harmless for the first time in her life. I keep thinking of the wolf waking up in the snow hours later like a creature coming out of a spell, feeling that something about her was different but not knowing why, shaking the snow off her fur and running back into the trees, irreversibly changed, connected to someone now. And never knowing it. But on come cellular level I think she does know. Maybe that’s why she went so far away.
…
Choose life, said the Catholics. Choose life, said the pagans. I finally am, but not in the way either creed intended. I don’t want to know every little thing that’ll happen to me up until the day I die. I don’t want to follow the plan to a higher power. I think that meeting you, singling you out and asking you for something, was the first step toward a new way of being. And I am changed now. I am touched, and I walk into the woods knowing it.”
On sex:
“I usually hated it when men used the term ‘make love.’ It sounded so squishy and earnest, like some kind of craft project. But then Jason put his arms around me and finally I could feel him, his hands intelligently registering all my bones and my skin, his lips burrowed in the crook of my neck and shoulder, and it was ridiculous how this made me so instantly happy, so relieved I’d been granted something another girl had been denied. I imagined her German face stern and spare with deprivation, and wondered what she had done wrong, and what I had done right. I slid into that detached sated space of knowing someone wants me.”
On telling three consecutive boyfriends about being molested as a child:
“…to think of anything other than the men she had told, and what they had said to her. Things like, Some of the sex stuff, it’s not healthy. And, I am so so so sorry. And, Get over here. And, Nothing will ever hurt you again. And, Why did you let him? And, I can’t. And, What can I do? And, This is repetitive. And, Somewhere in the world people are starving. And, You have to tell me what feels good. And, I want to feel your clit on my tongue. Please, for me. What was the point of it all, this exhaustive cycle of call-and-response, disclosure, and reaction? She thought with relief of the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh men, from whom she would never hear a word on the subject.
She heard sirens in the distance, wailing and persecutory, in hot pursuit of someone. She wondered who was being chased. Her first thought was of the uncle, but that couldn’t be: Who would have told, and why would they care? The one they should be chasing, she thought, was her. She imagined herself lying on pavement, the blue-uniformed silhouettes of men looming over her. How grateful she would be as she waited for them to deliver their most merciful line, that rote benediction bestowed on every single person in trouble: the insane and the reasonable, homeless and naked, innocent and guilty, uncles and nieces. You have the right to remain silent.
On therapy:
“A blind man with a dog who is beginning to resemble him – frowsy, leaking sighs and grunts, unnervingly mild – is asking you to justify your highly dysfunctional attitude toward your own romantic viability and you will not do it, you will not trot out the stock villains, you will not rehash the smug triteness of it all because it’s been done, it’s old: even the nightmares have the stale odor of a textbook.”
On writing:
“…she held the scotch in one hand and knew it was useless, knew that nothing would ever come out of her more purely or clearly than things like this: these distilled episodes, these illuminated lamentations, sculpted in all the right places, these testimonies of harm.”
July 14, 2010
With the exception of the collection's final entry ("None of the Above"), Rivecca's stories aren't exactly memorable, but the writing is. It's thrilling to read the prose of an author my own age; one who's clearly had some adult experiences, yet is able to pepper her works with pop culture references and metaphors that feel fresh and relevant, but also wise. Hopefully in the next few years, as more of my contemporaries break into the publishing industry, such a sensation will occur more frequently.
Lonely female protagonists lead each story and populate a seemingly shared world in which lapsed Catholicism, sexual frankness, and ongoing adjustment to newfound independence rule the scene. Linking such similarities makes for a quasi composite novel experience. Though it's frustrating to see such appealing writing continually not quite build to a satisfying conclusion, once "None of the Above" rolls along, it's difficult not to think, "Yes! She's finally got it!" The payoff is one of the finest examples of short fiction that I've ever read; one that wholeheartedly leads me to recommend it to others, and is a clear sign of excellent things to come from Rivecca.
Lonely female protagonists lead each story and populate a seemingly shared world in which lapsed Catholicism, sexual frankness, and ongoing adjustment to newfound independence rule the scene. Linking such similarities makes for a quasi composite novel experience. Though it's frustrating to see such appealing writing continually not quite build to a satisfying conclusion, once "None of the Above" rolls along, it's difficult not to think, "Yes! She's finally got it!" The payoff is one of the finest examples of short fiction that I've ever read; one that wholeheartedly leads me to recommend it to others, and is a clear sign of excellent things to come from Rivecca.
September 30, 2010
While envy is my regular life is no wonderful thing, I really enjoy my writer-envy. To read something and wish like hell that you had written it means that you love love love what you're reading. I've always had writer-envy for Suzanne Rivecca's work, even when we were in workshop. And her debut collection is an excellent illustration in why. Super smart, beautiful language, and the best kind of cutting humor. Her main characters are scathing in their judgment on the world but equally scathing in their evaluations of themselves. Rivecca has an honesty in her work, and a fearlessness in looking into the parts of ourselves that we'd rather gloss over, that makes me want to try harder as a writer.
February 19, 2011
Still thinking about these. They seem to be loosely organized around the theme of the desire to be believed, the urge to disclose vs. the wish not to have to disclose but be understood anyway. Some worked better than others, but a few were really affecting. An actual review to come Friday at Like Fire.
February 4, 2012
Rebecca's voice is confident, angry at times but sympathetic too. Looking forward to her next book.
June 10, 2025
A beautifully written collection of short stories.
Death Is Not an Option: 4/5
Left me feeling nostalgic, reminded me of how I felt graduating high school.
Yours Will Do Nicely: 3
It Sounds Like You’re Feeling: 3.5/5
I appreciated the not knowing of it all. And our main characters drive to help being stifled by bureaucracy. Felt familiar in a way.
Very Special Victims: 3.5/5
A tough subject, part 1 felt a bit unbelievable in terms of the age of the narrator and the thoughts she was having (too sophisticated). But that final line alone? 5/5
Look ma, I’m Breathing: 3.5/5
Once again, felt very relatable.
Consummation: 2.5/5
The only one in this collection that I didn’t really enjoy.
None of the Above: 3.5/5
Death Is Not an Option: 4/5
Left me feeling nostalgic, reminded me of how I felt graduating high school.
Yours Will Do Nicely: 3
It Sounds Like You’re Feeling: 3.5/5
I appreciated the not knowing of it all. And our main characters drive to help being stifled by bureaucracy. Felt familiar in a way.
Very Special Victims: 3.5/5
A tough subject, part 1 felt a bit unbelievable in terms of the age of the narrator and the thoughts she was having (too sophisticated). But that final line alone? 5/5
Look ma, I’m Breathing: 3.5/5
Once again, felt very relatable.
Consummation: 2.5/5
The only one in this collection that I didn’t really enjoy.
None of the Above: 3.5/5
June 4, 2020
I thought the stories in this book were well-written, and I was drawn in to many of the stories. I really loved the voice and middle school cattiness in the first story!
However, the motifs across stories felt tiresome to the point where they almost felt formulaic:
1. Catholicism
2 Sexual Dysfunction
3. Uncontrollable crying
4. Self-sabotage
I also disliked a number of the endings of the stories. Open-ended is one thing. But some of these endings felt hastily thrown into uncertainty/pain just for the sake of not having a “Hollywood Ending.”
TW: incest, attempted rape
However, the motifs across stories felt tiresome to the point where they almost felt formulaic:
1. Catholicism
2 Sexual Dysfunction
3. Uncontrollable crying
4. Self-sabotage
I also disliked a number of the endings of the stories. Open-ended is one thing. But some of these endings felt hastily thrown into uncertainty/pain just for the sake of not having a “Hollywood Ending.”
TW: incest, attempted rape
May 16, 2021
The saving graces of this book not getting 1-2 stars is the last story, and the Michigan settings. I am biased, because I live in Michigan, but it is nice to see settings that are familiar.
These stories are just.... weird, unsettling, and most of them don’t have endings. They just stop. The plots are thin and often don’t get finished. I feel like whatever level these are supposed to be on, they’re just not quite getting there. I feel like I am a supposed to feel enlightened when really I am confused and unsatisfied with the book. Maybe this book is great for someone else, but not me.
These stories are just.... weird, unsettling, and most of them don’t have endings. They just stop. The plots are thin and often don’t get finished. I feel like whatever level these are supposed to be on, they’re just not quite getting there. I feel like I am a supposed to feel enlightened when really I am confused and unsatisfied with the book. Maybe this book is great for someone else, but not me.
March 8, 2024
Such a refreshing read. It's raw and unrelenting. Rivecca doesn't stop or pause to sanitize. She did a wonderful job of capturing loneliness without drowning in isolation--ditto for being constantly surveilled without inciting paranoia. Her prose is beautiful, but sometimes trips over itself and gets bogged down with intellectualism (think self-masturbatory Tumblr poets). I find that to be the trouble with many contemporary writers this decade. Overall, this will definitely be a collection I come back to reread.
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